1636: The Cardinal Virtues (5 page)

Chapter 5

Turin

“You look fine, my dear. For Heaven’s sake, stop fussing.”

Terrye Jo twisted, trying to settle the fall of her very full skirts, draped over pleated pads at the hips and ending in a small train. There were petticoats and underclothes, more than she knew existed. The front of the gown was a single piece, while the back was separated at the uncomfortably high waistline. The bodice had a wide neck, with the side seams running into the full sleeves, which puffed out like a pair of frilly balloon animals. And she wasn’t even able to describe the boning at the waist.

“Your Grace must realize how uncomfortable this all is.”

“Mademoiselle, I am perhaps two months from term. If you think that
you
are uncomfortable, consider my position.” Duchess Christina Maria smiled and reached out a hand, clad in a delicate, white lace glove. “Really, Teresa. It will be all right. Now put on your gloves and your smile.”

Terrye Jo drew on her own gloves, of thin doeskin leather. At least they covered up her hands, which showed ample evidence of hard manual work—but even though they were comfortable and beautiful, they seemed alien on her.

As for the smile, it came much more easily.

“That’s better,” Christina said. “Now you have no need to be nervous. You have attended to your bows and curtseys with
military
attention—you will do fine.”

“That’s not what worries me, Your Grace.”

“Then what is it, dear?”

“I’ve . . . never met royalty before.”

“You’ve met a
duke
. And a
duchess
,” Christina added, smiling again. “Whose father was a king. That’s almost the same.”

“I suppose it is, but not quite. I mean no offense, Your Grace, but an heir to a throne is a different thing.”

“Gaston is just a man, my dear. He’s my unrepentant, dissolute brother. He sits at table and squats in the privy like every other man. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not
afraid
of him.”

“Then . . .”

“I—nothing. I don’t know.” Terrye Jo walked away from Christina, turning her back on her—which was probably bad protocol, but she didn’t know if she cared. Honestly, she wanted to run away, even though she wasn’t exactly wearing shoes for running.

Christina had a temper and was a little thin skinned, but she was very fond of Terrye Jo. Rather than follow her first instinct, she waited for her up-timer friend to gather herself.

“I’m sorry,” Terrye Jo said at last. She came back to stand before the duchess. “I beg your pardon, madame.”

“Oh, nonsense.” The duchess extended her hands to Terrye Jo, who took them and held them for several moments. “Let me tell you something. The world of the court—this one, any one, really—is a man’s world. There are kings and princes and dukes and ministers and archbishops, and any number of courtiers. The best of them include and honor their ladies, but many do not. We are no more than ornaments, decorations. Brood mares.”

She placed her hand on her womb. “And we are otherwise ignored. But that does not make
us
less: it makes
them
weaker for ignoring us. Teresa, when we walk out into court and are presented, we should hold our heads high and look each man in the eye. Even if the man is the heir to a mighty throne.”

“I still have to bow.”

“Unless it is your up-time custom not to do so. I’m told that there aren’t many princes there.”

“I’ve never met one, Your Grace. Not even here down-time. You and the duke are the first great lords I’ve ever met.”

“And we’re not so bad, are we?”

“No, you’re—” Terrye Jo folded her hands in front of her and blushed. “You’ve been so nice to me.”

“We don’t do that for everyone, my dear.” When Terrye Jo didn’t answer, she turned to a mirror and adjusted the fit of her bodice and continued, “All right, then. Let’s go in.”

◊ ◊ ◊

When she was growing up, Terrye Jo’s dad was a big fan of graphic novels—what some folks in Grantville called
grown-up comic books
. That came to mind when she first saw Monsieur Gaston. One of the ones her father liked was a sort of scary dystopian future in which the government was brought down by a freedom-fighting terrorist in a mask—a “Guy Fawkes” mask with a pointy beard and moustache and painted-on smile. That was the face she saw on the heir to the throne of France: a permanent charming grin and deep brown eyes.

When she was finally presented to the prince, he took her hand in his and afforded her a first-class royal smile. Terrye Jo could hardly take her eyes off him; he seemed to draw attention to himself from every corner of the room. She managed the curtsey that the duchess had made her practice. Just as Gaston was taking her hand, she glanced aside at the duchess of Orléans, Marguerite, who didn’t look at all pleased. But, even with the tightness of her dress, she breathed much easier.

As she stood a little while later on the side of the room watching the festivities, she saw Monsieur Gaston extricate himself from a small knot of people and make his way toward her, the crowd of people parting to let him through. His wife seemed to be watching him carefully, and Terrye Jo noticed that the duchess had taken note as well. For a few seconds she thought he might be headed toward someone else, but it seemed as if anyone within ten feet of her moved away until she stood alone beside a small alcove.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, offering her a courtly bow. “If you would indulge me with a few moments of your time?”

She gave him a curtsey. “Of course, Your Royal Highness.” All of a sudden she felt as if her French wasn’t up to the task.

“Excellent,” he said, steering her gently by the elbow into the alcove. They were still completely visible from the hall, but were afforded a small bit of privacy.

Terrye Jo composed herself, hoping she didn’t look as alarmed as she felt.
Head high
, she thought.

“Mademoiselle Tillman,” Monsieur Gaston said. “I am honored to have the chance to speak with you. I have met so few up-timers. I know that my associate has already visited you to discuss my need for your specific services.”

“He was . . . pretty direct, Highness.”

“I apologize most humbly, mademoiselle. He has spent far more time in the saddle than at a court.”

“It’s all right.” She absently tugged on the sleeve of her right glove. “I’m used to it.”

“Ah, but you should not have to be. I think that you put the fear of God into him.”

“I’m used to that, too.”

Gaston smiled. “I expect you are. Tell me, young lady, what do you think of France?”

She wasn’t quite ready for the question. “I . . . I don’t know, Highness. France used to be our enemy, the USE’s enemy. I guess it isn’t anymore.”

“No. Our countries are now at peace. And tell me, Mademoiselle Tillman . . . what do you think of Cardinal Richelieu?”

“I’m not sure. He’s—well, I guess we don’t trust him.”

“As well you should not.” Gaston ran a finger along his cheek. He wore the carefully-trimmed chin beard and flowing moustaches, but his jaw was clean-shaven. “Richelieu is a spider in the middle of a web, mademoiselle. He keeps secrets and makes plots and intrigues, and holds lives and souls in the palm of his hand. All of his secrets are, as his says, ‘beneath his red robe.’

“But he is not
France
, young lady. What he does places my country in peril and twists the commands and endangers the rule of my royal brother.”

“Didn’t he also exile you?”

Gaston’s face hardened. “His Majesty exiled me at Richelieu’s direction. You are correct . . . but even that cannot stand forever.”

Terrye Jo didn’t answer.

“It is my desire to reconcile with the king,” he said. “I know that if I have a chance I can do so. But Richelieu must go.”

“As you say, Highness.”

“I am sure . . .” Gaston’s voice, which had become harsh and angry, softened and warmed. “I am sure, madame, that the relations between my country and yours could become much more cordial in the absence of the cardinal.”

“Your Royal Highness,” Terrye Jo said carefully, “That sort of thing is
way
above my pay grade.”

Gaston frowned for a moment; she thought perhaps she’d messed up the translation into French. Then he smiled again, like the sun breaking through clouds. “Yes. Of course. That is something that would have to be negotiated. I am sure that I could find common ground with your emperor.”

“I . . . imagine the king and Emperor Gustav could find a way.”

Gaston did not answer for a moment, then said, “Yes, of course. If God wills it I may someday be king of France, but in the meanwhile my royal brother might be able to make progress toward friendship and peace, free of the malign influence of the cardinal.”

“Peace is better than war, for sure.”

“Yes. Of course it is.” The beatific Guy Fawkes smile came back. “Now, I do not wish to keep you much longer from all the young men who wait to dance with you, mademoiselle. I wish only to confirm for my own satisfaction that your radio equipment has been brought to the standard I require, and that you can personally handle the task.”

“I’ve been able to pick up traffic all the way from Magdeburg and Venice. I expect that if the other station is transmitting, the equipment here can communicate with it.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“I am at your service, Your Royal Highness, with the permission of His Grace the Duke.”

“Excellent.” He made a very formal leg. “I shall call upon you personally when the time comes.”

“I look forward to it, Your Highness.”

“Yes,” he said as he turned away, smiling. “I am sure you do.”

As Monsieur Gaston walked back among the many visitors to the Castello del Valentino, Terrye Jo Tillman wondered to herself just what that had been about.

◊ ◊ ◊

“So.” The duke of Savoy gestured with his wine glass, which caught the firelight and sparkled. “You seem impressed with our resident up-timer.”

They were sitting in the dimly lit library. Victor Amadeus had dismissed the servant, choosing to serve personally as cupbearer for his brother-in-law.

“What makes you think that?”

“You paid court to her, Highness,” he said.

Gaston leaned back in his armchair and stretched like a hunting cat. “Is
that
what you call it?”

“You were very charming.”

“I am always very charming. She is a comely one, though to be honest, she knows very little about how to enhance it. A wig might have been in order to cover that man’s haircut, and—I don’t know, some face powder or some such. I can imagine that under her gloves there are a pair of laborer’s hands.”

“She was a soldier, Gaston.”

“Ah. That explains it, I suppose, but it does not excuse it. Still, she is no Helen.”

“My wife rather likes her.”

Gaston shook his head. “My dear sister, the duchess, sees a rose under every thorn. Has she taken this up-timer as a pet?”

“That’s a bit disparaging.”

“Gentle birth—
royal
birth—has its privileges, Victor.” He patted his stomach. “But in all earnest: doesn’t she have something else more important to think about?”

“I don’t think it’s ever far from her mind.”

“Then she should stick to it,” Gaston said, shrugging off all pretense of conviviality. “Christina is neither qualified to involve herself in ducal—or
royal
—affairs, nor aware of the pitfalls of befriending these up-timers. She should stick to the affairs of women, Victor, and nothing else.”

The duke of Savoy did not answer. Perhaps Gaston expected him to agree, or object, but Victor Amadeus said nothing.

“I suspect that you have not given much thought to up-timers, Brother-in-law,” he continued. “I know what I think of them. Holy Mother Church has been very cautious about the Ring of Fire: what it is, why it happened, and what we should think about it. But as for the up-timers themselves, they are not to be trusted
.
”

Victor Amadeus drank his wine and set the goblet on a sideboard. “I will vouch for Mademoiselle Tillman. She is trustworthy, honest, hard-working and reliable.”

“And you stand behind her.”

“I do.”

“Then, my dear Victor Amadeus, you are gullible. The up-timers are a tightly knit society: three thousand men and women who speak the same language.”

“Many people speak English or—what is it they call it?—Amideutsch.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Gaston leaned forward and jabbed the air with his finger toward his brother-in-law. “I’m talking about their common culture, their context. They are all a part of the same world and not our world. They think differently than we do.”

“Of course they do. They’re from the
future
, Gaston.”

“But not our future.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Oh, don’t you.” Gaston stood up and walked across the library to a table, where a map of Europe was spread. “Look at this, Victor. Our world, from the Pillars of Hercules to the mountains of Russia. And right in the middle of it, squatting like a big, fat toad, is the United States of Europe. For the last four and a half years it has been growing and growing, sending its agents and its . . .
ideas
in every direction. The future that the up-timers come from, the one in which France becomes the greatest power in the world, is never going to happen.

“Have you read the up-time histories, Victor? Have you? In
their
world—what do they call it? Time line? In
their
time line, France allies with the king of Sweden, and he is killed at a battle at Lützen in 1632. It continues in alliance with Sweden against the Imperial forces for years afterward and ultimately wins a great battle.” He poked at the map, at a place in the Netherlands. “A place called Rocroi, about seven years from now—if
now
hadn’t been destroyed by the Ring. Of. Fire.” The last three words were punctuated by raps of his knuckles.

“But it’s not going to happen. It is never going to happen. Instead, we have the fat toad squatting in the middle of the Germanies, spreading their ideas of
democracy
and
freedom
.”