Marguerite, her sister––her heavily pregnant sister––turned her face without lifting her head from the bolster. “I hadn’t realized you were so fond of my husband.” Since Marguerite, even in her present condition, was, if not precisely pretty, at least far from unattractive, she did not sound particularly worried.
“Not Monsieur,” Henriette said with disgust. “Ugh. Antoine.”
This time, Marguerite made the effort to sit up. “Henriette, you are being careless.”
“Why not be careless? I’m a widow, not a young, unmarried girl. Who is going to reprimand me? Not our brother Charles, not with all his women. And the bastard is dead.”
‘Bastard’ was the most literal possible description of Henriette’s late husband. Louis de Guise, baron d’Ancerville, grand chamberlain and seneschal of Lorraine, bastard son of the Cardinal de Guise, and her uncle’s favorite, had been nearly a quarter-century her senior.
Legally, they had married when she was eleven, because the Estates had refused to let her uncle marry Nicole to him. Practically, they had married when she was eighteen. Finally, a long two years later, when she was twenty, he had died. It could have been worse. He could have lived longer.
Of course, she had already left him by then. Louis had been annoyingly stiff-necked about her affairs, even when she pointed out most reasonably that since it was clear that she was barren, he didn’t have a thing to worry about.
At least the marriage, by the favor of her brother and the consent of the late Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand II, had brought her the title of princesse, however meaningless, and her very own tiny principality to rule. All her own, since Louis had died. In Lorraine, but not Lorraine proper. The heavily indebted duke of Pfalz-Veldenz, Georg Johann, count palatine by birth, had sold most of the various territories to her grandfather in 1584. A dreamer, the man had founded new cities in his left-bank-of-the-Rhine lands and set them up as a refuge for persecuted Huguenots from France. Pfalzburg––Phalsbourg, in French, Philippopolis in Latin documents. Who could guess what the up-timers might call it. Philipsburg, maybe, though the proper translation would be Fort Palatine. Lixheim, founded by the indebted count’s son in 1608 to provide a haven for more Reformed refugees and then, the son being equally if not more indebted, sold to her brother in 1623. Hambach, bought by her grandfather a few years before Pfalzburg, in 1561, from the bishop of Metz. That was directly east of Nancy, south of Sarreguemines––almost far enough south to be in Alsace, and far enough east to border on the USE. Sampigny lay to the northeast, closer to Metz; she had built a lovely new chateau there in 1630, just in time for the French to take it away. Saint-Avold, Neufchâteau, a few other scattered lands, this, that, and the other.
Not a lot, but hers. Her lands to govern, with no husband to govern her. At the age of twenty-three, almost twenty-four, she had achieved something almost no noblewoman in Europe could dream of.
She was free.
Or she would be free, if French troops had not occupied her little principality along with the rest of Lorraine.
Free, except that she had fallen in love with Antoine.
Antoine de l’Aage, duc de Puylaurens. Her brother-in-law Gaston’s favorite, with his sweet Languedoc drawl. Panderer to Gaston’s pleasures, and as beautiful of body as he needed to be for that. Adviser in his intrigues against Richelieu. Most recently, by grace of Gaston’s reconciliation with his brother, Louis XIII, the king of France, also granted the titles of duc d’Aiguillon and pair de France.
Antoine was destined, if one believed the eleventh edition of the Encylopedia Britannica, now so widely reprinted and distributed, to die in prison, incarcerated on the orders of that same king, in little more than a year.
Antoine had read the encyclopedia article also. “I read a proverb that the up-timers have,” he told her the last time they saw one another, before he went back to France with Gaston. “‘There’s nothing that concentrates a man’s mind quite as much as the prospect of being hanged in the morning.’ I plan, my dear Henriette, to concentrate very hard.”
It was insane of her to love Antoine. Thank God that he had managed to duck the marriage they had arranged for him with the sister-in-law of Nogaret, who in turn had just married one of Richelieu’s distant cousins. Nogaret, the duc de La Valette, first married one of the illegitimate daughters of Henri IV. Everyone said that he poisoned her once the marriage was no longer advantageous. He’d be an uncomfortable man to have in the family, so to speak, even on the fringes. If Antoine hadn’t managed to escape the match, what relation would the brother of her lover’s wife have been to her? Not inan in-law. But not an out-law, either.
Still, even though Antoine was still single, she was not insane enough to marry him herself.
She was instead, if anybody would ever bother to notice, really rather shrewd. Probably, she would have to wait as long as she had already lived before anyone noticed that. Men seemed to pay more attention to a woman’s mind after she had passed beyond the age of bearing children.
“I just can’t imagine what all those women see in Charles.” While Henriette’s mind was wandering, Marguerite’s had stayed focused on the topic of their brother. “Especially la Chevreuse––she is so lovely.”
Henriette grinned. “The size of the nose is supposed to be a clue, you know.”
Marguerite started to say something appropriately repressive.
A footman, with great ceremony, opened the doors.
Henriette curtsied.
The heavy, not particularly attractive––well, plain, to put it bluntly––woman who entered motioned to Marguerite that she should not, in these private chambers, make the effort to get up.
Nicole, duchess of Lorraine, their cousin and sister-in-law. Duchess of Bar by birth. Her father Henri, their uncle, had died leaving only two daughters. It had made perfect sense to everyone, particularly the pope, who had stepped in as arbitrator, that Nicole, as the older female heir, should be married off to their brother Charles, the closest heir in the male line. It would keep the two parts of the duchy together. It was a neat solution to so many possible problems. Except...
Well, except that Nicole and Charles loathed one another. Always had. Probably always would. It had not been easy for the older members of the family and spokesmen for the Lorraine Estates to obtain the mutual consent without which the wedding could not proceed.
The story circulated that when the happy mother of the groom had ceremonially opened the curtains of the state bed the morning after the wedding night, the newlyweds had been found lying, backs toward one another, on opposite edges of the mattress, the sixteen-year-old groom sulking and the twelve-year-old bride sobbing with misery.
Nicole swore that they had not exchanged so much as a word all that night.
Certainly, in the dozen-plus years between then and now, they had not produced any children, even though the Jesuits had performed multiple exorcisms on the duchess to make sure that her barrenness was not caused by witchcraft.
Nicole stomped to the nearest chair and sat down.
The footman, with equal ceremony, closed the door.
“Divorce,” Nicole said. “This time, he has gone too far. A civil separation, to preserve my property interests. As far as the church goes, a divorce a mensa et thoro, so I never have to see him again. I would even be willing to accept a declaration of nullity, if that is what it takes to rid myself of Charles, not that I need an annulment. Heaven forbid that I should ever be mad enough to wish to marry again. This time...”
Marguerite moaned and turned her face away. “What can he have done now that’s worse than having the priest who baptized you burned for sorcery so he could claim that you weren’t a properly baptized Christian, so your marriage wasn’t valid? Honestly, Nicole, matrimonial incompatibility doesn’t get much worse than that. He hit bottom years ago.”
Henriette lifted her chin. “That was nasty, but the trick by which he and his father used a forged will of Duke René to invalidate your
father’s will was worse. Sure, Father de la Vallée is dead, but the pope didn’t let Charles get away with invalidating your marriage because of the sorcery charge and if he was innocent, he’s in heaven experiencing eternal bliss. The Estates, on the other hand, let Charles steal the Duchy of Bar from you. If a husband of mine ever tried anything of the sort with me... If Nicolas ever tries something like that with Claude...”
“Ah,” Marguerite said. “Ah. Where is Claude?”
“Over at the royal palace,” Nicole humphed. “My sister is at the royal palace. Probably giggling with Maria Anna over what it is like to be married to an ex-cardinal. Jokes––those two girls make jokes. Of course, one should not take risks by calling the queen of the Low Countries, one’s hostess while one is in exile, ‘silly.’ Nor is it polite to call one’s sister ‘silly.’ Still...”
“It’s romantic,” Henriette said. “It is. Maria Anna’s running away from Duke Maximilian. Claude’s elopement with our brother Nicolas, disguised as a stable boy, even. No writer of romantic comedies could do better. Why shouldn’t they giggle together when they have a chance? They both have little enough time to laugh, they are so taken up with duty and duties.”
“Romance,” Nicole proclaimed, “is a chimera. A fraud. I have consulted my confessor and an entire bevy of lawyers, both canon and civil.”
Henriette looked at her sister-in-law sharply. Nicole had never gone that far before.
“Nicole,” she said cautiously. “Nicole. Make sure that it is only a separation, a mensa et thoro. If you did obtain a declaration of nullity, Charles would be free of the marital bond and he is just foolish enough to marry one of his flighty little flirts, if she were high-born enough. Even marginally high-born enough. When our brother is being led by his dick, he has no sense whatsoever.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Nicolas François, formerly the Cardinal de Lorraine and now heir to the duke of Lorraine, contemplated his brother with exasperation. Charles was––flashy. He was handsome, he was merry, he had military aspirations, he had debts, debts, and more debts. Of the two, Charles was five years older, but he certainly hadn’t devoted those years to accumulating anything that even mildly resembled maturity of judgment. He lacked prudence. He lacked moderation. He did not lack for feminine attention.
“Once Gaston gets here,” the duke was saying.
“Once Gaston gets here, with Puylaurens, you will likely lose any semblance of good behavior you have managed to hang onto by a thread thus far. If you haven’t noticed––and I greatly fear that you have not––the king in the Low Countries is not inclined toward libertinage. I would not go so far as to call him a prude, but when he finds out about your absolutely unashamed pursuit of a respectable young married woman... Even your servants... And if Isabella Clara Eugenia should hear––I believe this girl’s mother was once one of Isabella Clara Eugenia’s ladies-in-waiting, and also a personal friend of the queen’s principal lady-in-waiting, Doña Mencia. This is not going to do anything but cause trouble.”
Charles, duc de Lorraine et Bar, flipped his brother the bird. “I assure you, the lady is not as respectable as she was two weeks ago. By no means as respectable as she was a month ago.”
“Why do I even try? Why did we come to Brussels. ? Our cousins invited Claude and me to come to Savoy. We could have gone there. We could have put hundreds of miles between us and your...activities.”
“The court in Turin is scarcely a model of propriety, my dear brother. Every time I talk to you, it becomes more clear that you were educated to become a bishop. Do stop plaguing me and have a glass of wine.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“One result of the defeat at Ahrensbök,” Monsieur Gaston said, “is that my brother and that demon Richelieu no longer really have sufficient military resources to maintain their occupation of Lorraine at full strength.”
Charles IV’s eyes brightened. “My advisers tell me...”
“No,” Nicolas said firmly. “They don’t. Or, at least, they shouldn’t.”
“It’s true,” Puylaurens said. “Richelieu is distracted by other problems. This may be your best opportunity.”
Nicolas answered for his brother. “Under no circumstances.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“If her brothers won’t,” Gaston said. “Then I will. On my own. On behalf of Marguerite, of course. It is clearly utterly humiliating for her––well, I haven’t actually asked her, but it must be utterly humiliating for her––I would certainly be utterly humiliated if I were in her place––to see them accepting the exile that my brother’s adviser has forced upon them with such cowardice. With such pusillanimity. With such...”
Puylaurens, who was just barely smart enough to realize that his lord and master lacked something in the way of “ability to intrigue successfully” took Henriette’s advice and suggested that just now, it might be important for Gaston to care for Marguerite solicitously in these final weeks of her pregnancy. “After all, the birth of the heir to France should outweigh...”
“In any case,” Puylaurens continued, “I’ve talked to Charles. He did manage to bring most of his regiments with him when he fled. They’ve been here in the Spanish Netherlands ever since, eating and drilling, getting into trouble with the local authorities in the towns where they are quartered, but really doing nothing. Eating his resources up. Fernando won’t let him take employment offers from any other Kriegsherr and has more sense than to place Charles in a position of command himself. If we offer to reimburse the king for those two years of costs in return for having free use of them this spring...”
Chapter 3 Legions of Pestilence
“...auch das sterben und kranckheit zimblich einreissen thut,...”
Basel
March 1635
The USE embassy in Basel was, these days, far less embattled than it had been during the crisis with Bavaria the previous summer. The uniformed guards at the entrances were, if not a pure formality, at least more likely to be called upon to check visitors for diplomatic credentials than for hidden weapons.
Inside, Diane Jackson called once more upon her French, upon young Tony Adducci’s German and Latin, and upon her last reserves of patience, which were running low. Very low. She glared at Johann Rudolf Wettstein, representing the city and canton of Basel. She glared at Colonel Raudegen, representing Burgundy.
For good measure, although the man had done nothing but sit quietly, she glared at the delegate representing Johann Heinrich von Osthein, the prince-bishop of Basel (Catholic), which was a quite separate entity from the city and canton of Basel (Protestant). The bishops of Basel had not resided in the city since 1528, owing to a bit of difficulty they encountered with the Reformation.
Or, perchance, the delegate––she couldn’t remember his name, he was such a meek presence––represented the former prince-bishop of Basel, since most of the land over which Osthein had previously been sovereign now found itself in the County of Burgundy. Ostein lived at Porrentruy in Canton Jura. The war had not been good to Porruntruy.
She took a surreptious peek at the notes that Tony had provided for her, hoping to spot the man’s name. No luck. But Tony wrote that Ostein’s family had connections in Mainz––therefore connections with the archbishop of Mainz, who was currently making nice to the USE. Perhaps that was why he had asked to send a delegate. In any case, the bishop had asked to send a representative, no matter what the reason might be, and here he was. Surely someone had introduced him.
Giving up her search for the name of the episcopal delegate, she glared hardest at Margrave Friedrich of Baden-Durlach. “You say that I should speak directly with your father. I cannot speak directly with your father, My Lord, since your father is in Augsburg, glaring across the Lech at the Bavarians in his capacity as administrator for the emperor in this imaginary Province of Swabia they have constructed. Offering imaginary Swabia’s imaginary forces for the protection of the independent city-state.”
“Imaginary?” One Georg Mü
ller, a lawyer representing Axel Oxenstierna, drew himself as erect as he could in the comfortable chair, profoundly offended. “Horn is scarcely imaginary.”
“Yes. Swabia is imaginary. Made up. Invented in their minds, by these ‘great diplomats’ who attended the Congress of Copenhagen, just as a small child will make up an imaginary friend and talk to him or her quite seriously, just as if the invented friend were sitting in the same room, playing. Thus far, it does not exist, this “‘Province of Swabia.’ It shows very little sign of ever existing. Not now. Not someday soon.”
She turned back to the margrave. “Yes, your father is in Augsburg, which is, at least, real. Ulm is garrisoned by the Swedes, true––or, more precisely, by more of these Scots who fight for the Swedes. They seem to be everywhere. But Ulm, also, is an independent city state. Therefore, it will be up to the city council and the emperor whether they have the emperor’s Scots or not, a year from now.”
Diane paused to collect her train of thought.
“You, however, are here. Therefore, you will do what is necessary and you will listen to this man, although he has been sent by Bernhard.”
“As heir to the margaviate margraviate of Baden-Durlach,” Friedrich started.
Tony Adducci scribbled a note and started to doodle a Tom Swifty word game in the margin. How did Margrave Friedrich speak? Persistently, pompously, pontifically (scratch that out––too many Catholic connotations), portentously, priggishly...
“...until such time as the status of Baden’s lands that the self-proclaimed Grand Duke of the County of Burgundy has illegally occupied...”
“Plague,” Diane screamed. “We are not playing games in this room. We are told that there will be an epidemic of plague. This coming summer and next year. First we have wars, now we have plagues. Plagues do not respect borders any more than marauding armies do. They do not respect legal land titles any more than plundering armies do. In this you will cooperate, My Lord. Yes, even with Bernhard. Yes, even if he shows every sign of keeping the parts of Baden he has already occupied. You will cooperate across the borders. As will your honored father on behalf of the imaginary Province of Swabia. As will General Horn on behalf of the king of Sweden, the emperor, you know who. Gustavus Adolphus. Captain GARS. That guy. The politics? Bah. We can sort the politics out later.”
Ring of Fire - 1635_ The Legions of Pestilence Page 4