“Her dowry’s really big. Big enough to compensate for a lot of problems. My jaw dropped when I read the report in the papers.”
“The subsidy they coaxed out of her father for the grand duke isn’t all that bad either. Neither is the one from Frederik Hendrik. Particularly if they actually pay the whole amounts, and on time, which was more than Richelieu did. Not that we’re supposed to know anything about that. We’re supposed to believe that the whole thing was about Waldemar. I do wonder just how, all of a sudden, the treasurer is going to explain that Bernhard can pay his bills now, when he couldn’t two weeks ago. I don’t think that manna from heaven will last very long as a ploy.”
“Loans, Dominique, loans. It’s the magic of credit.”
“What about Waldemar? Kamala wants to put a cast on his leg. I’ve barely met him. Do we know whether or not Waldemar has any redeeming characteristics?”
Shae Horton giggled. “He isn’t James Hamilton,”
“Hah!” Marguerite replied. “He isn’t Tancrède, either.”
“Oh, come on, now,” Dominique complained. “That doesn’t work. There are all the rest of the guys in the world who he isn’t, and most of them are nice. Well, a lot of them. Some of them.”
SECTION III
PEACE IN OUR TIME
Chapter 44
Da pacem, Domine,
in diebus nostris,
quia non est alius
qui pugnet pro nobis,
nisi tu Deus noster (Gregorian Antiphon, probably 9th century A.D.).[2]
Besançon
January 1637
Claudia de’ Medici looked up at her husband. Up, because their second child was due in four months. At the age of 33 and in her eighth pregnancy, she just wasn’t feeling very lively. When she had an opportunity to sit, she sat.
“My lord husband.” She paused. “Need you maintain this grudge? Yes, at the time we made the settlement in Lorraine, you insisted that they could not stay around to complicate matters. They left. Not to the far borders of Hungary, since complications in the east have made that less than feasible recently...” which the queen in the Netherlands has pointed out repeatedly and quite rightly in her correspondence with you, “but they left. They went to Savoy. They have lived quietly, making themselves useful, solidly useful, to Duke Victor Amadeus. They have not meddled in Gaston’s...”
Gaston’s what? she asked herself. The maneuvers of the self-proclaimed king of France were not easy to describe.
“...in Gaston’s initiatives. They have not interfered in any of the policies put in place by Aldringen and Nicole. To the best of my knowledge, they have not intrigued with Anne of Austria and Mazarin. And...”
Bernhard, Grand Duke of the County of Burgundy, slammed a large pile of paperwork down on the fine cherry wood standing desk that dominated the room.
“So they have been paragons. Perfect paragons! As all ten thousand of your immediate relatives are perfect paragons, one may assume.”
“Not all of them. But, to be reasonable, Nicholas-François and Claude are as close as I’m likely to come to having paragonal relatives. If there is such a word.”
She stood up abruptly, crossed to the desk, and put her hand on his elbow.
“I truly feel that I will need them for the conference in Nancy next summer. Their influence is more likely to be stabilizing than disruptive. Can’t you at least consider...?”
“I will not simply agree to your inviting them.” The grand duke frowned. “Not without more current information than I have as to precisely where they stand. The written word leaves too much room for subtle subterfuge. Lies, to put it more plainly.”
Minor progress.
“Perhaps you could send an envoy to talk to them.” She considered a moment. “Your choice of envoy, not mine.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Verleih uns Frieden gnädiglich,
Herr Gott, zu unsern Zeiten.
Es ist doch ja kein andrer nicht,
der für uns könnte streiten,
denn du, unser Gott, alleine (Martin Luther, 1529).[3]
“It’s the grand duchess’ idea,” Bernhard said, gesturing in the direction of said grand duchess.
Claudia, seated as close to the ceramic tile stove as she could get without scorching her skirts, worked on looking demure.
August von Bismarck and Henri de Ruvigny each produced a polite half-bow in silent acknowledgment. When the grand duke was in a choleric mood, silent acknowledgments were usually more prudent than words.
“She thinks she will need them in Lorraine next summer.”
The two of them produced smaller nods.
“And she probably will.”
Bare tilts of their heads.
“On condition.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Savoy is too close for comfort. For my comfort, at least, considering that Duchess Christine Marie is Gaston’s sister and I’m sure he has spies running all over the duchy, infiltrating into Turin, blanketing the palace, insinuating themselves among the priests, influencing courtiers, misleading public opinion...”
More nods.
“I will authorize you to speak in my name. Invite them to Lorraine on behalf of the grand duchess on condition that...”
The grand duchess raised her eyebrows. Bernhard had not mentioned any conditions to her.
“...on condition that after the conference in Nancy, they don’t go back to Savoy. That they accept a more, ah, geographically prudent posting on behalf of the protectors of Lorraine. Those protectors would specifically include Fernando. The king in the Low Countries is also in a delicate position, just as much as Ourselves, considering that he has Anne of Austria and her son in sanctuary in Brussels. He doesn’t need the brother and cousin of Gaston’s wife in the immediate vicinity. We have considered... Well, really, the queen in the Low Countries has suggested... I will, reluctantly, consent to their appearing at the Nancy conference on condition that they take a subsequent posting to the Danish court. Stick Christian with them!
“So you, Ruvigny, will take your new wife with you. She’s in a better position to bring them up to date on the finer points of court politics in Denmark right now than anyone else we have available.” Bernhard turned to the table next to his desk and unearthed a large cowbell from among the stacks of papers.
A page popped through the door. “You rang? Loudly?” He produced an impudent grin.
Bernhard glared at the boy and slapped his forehead. “Bring Us the up-timers.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“I wonder what the pillar and the post were,” Marcie Abruzzo commented. “The ones that we have been going to and from for the last two years.” She stamped some snow off her boots and handed her cloak to one of the ubiquitous footmen.
“The pillar is where we were last week,” Matt Trelli groused, slapping his snow-dripping hat against his thigh before adding it to the pile of wet outer garments that the footman was collecting. “Make that plural, pillars, since we weren’t in the same place. The post is where we’re going to be next week. I’m getting tired of being jerked all over the map, too.” He pulled his wife in for a hug. “Not that I’m unhappy to have a chance to see you again, but why have we been hauled back to Besançon without a clue as to the reason?”
Marcie hugged him back. “I’m sure they’ll tell us, in the fullness of their grand ducal time.”
A page popped through the door.
✽ ✽ ✽
The meeting had gradually accreted additional participants, which required moving to a larger, less well-heated, chamber. The huge fireplace, an original amenity of the century-old building, was well-stocked with wood, but by no means as efficient in providing heat as the newer stoves which were being installed in the regularly-used rooms. The stoves in rooms used for utilitarian purposes were cast iron–an up-time innovation, Franklin stoves, they were called–and comparatively cheap as remodeling went, since the metal stovepipes came with joints that allowed them to simply be
shoved up the existing fireplace flues. They were, however, in the opinion of Grand Duchess Claudia, remarkably ugly, so she insisted firmly on ceramic tile stoves in the ceremonial rooms, the grand duke’s working spaces, and her private quarters. Those were more attractive, but also much more expensive and far slower to install. Nevertheless, she had proclaimed on more than one occasion there were some things upon which a person simply could not compromise.
Claudia rustled in and sat down.
Bernhard called the meeting to order.
Matt Trelli looked around. Rehlinger, the chancellor. Michael John, the private secretary. Rohan. A few others, all civilian. Lisa Lund. Bismarck, Ruvigny, and the Danish ‘king’s daughter’ he had brought back with him at Christmas.
This was not a council to respond to an immediate military threat.
No Kamala Dunn. No Tyrolean plague doctors. So not a council to respond to a new epidemic outbreak, not that one was likely in the middle of winter.
Bernhard dropped the news that they were headed for Savoy. Where he and Marcie, as auxiliaries to a separate and distinct diplomatic mission, might just want to try–subtly–to figure out just how much up-time technology the duke had adopted successfully, or had the potential to adopt, given Terrye Jo Tillman, the Turin radio installation, Gaston, and all that. Not to mention the purposes for which it was being used.
“Not by sneaking or slinking around behind the scenes,” Rohan added. “Just by being up-timers, novelties, chatting amiably with the staff.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“Rohan should know about up-time novelties,” Marcie said a little acerbically as they returned to the anteroom and waited for the footman to come back with the coats that had been, hopefully, hung to dry in front of a fire all this time rather than left in a damp pile. “He’s collected his own souvenirs, with Carey Calagna and those girls.”
“Marcie,” Matt started to say, his tone of voice repressive.
A page popped through the door.
“Don’t go,” he said. “The grand duchess would like to speak with you.”
“You” turned out to be the two of them, Bismarck, Ruvigny, and Ruvigny’s recently acquired teenage spouse, who came through the outer entrance holding the brim of a squashed-down brown velvet hat over her ears. “Isn’t this weather refreshing?” Sophia asked the gathered group. She sounded like she might possibly mean it rather than being sarcastic. “I walked over. The sun is shining. It’s really bright out. I just adore fresh snow. We don’t get sun and snow together very often in Copenhagen.”
Hille, the maid accompanying her, was also well-booted, well-hooded, and well-cloaked. Nonetheless, she showed no sign of sharing her mistress’ enthusiasm for the weather.
All of them, except for the maid, turned and followed the page to the grand duchess’ private sitting room. Claudia was waiting, seated by the stove, one dog on her lap and the rest huddling on her skirts. A scattering of unmatched straight chairs, clearly dragged in from other rooms, were placed in a circle around her. She waved for them to sit down.
“In regard to Savoy,” she said. “It’s complicated. We do not always feel an obligation to apprise the grand duke of everything. Not when, in Our opinion, the things under consideration are really Our business rather than his. That includes the internal politics of Tyrol’s role in the USE, of course. It also, to a considerable extent, includes the complications of Our Medici family connections. Those...
“The immediate relevance to your negotiations with Nicholas-François and Claude in Savoy is that Our Medici connections are, inevitably, also Our Lorraine connections. In this instance... I have not apprised the grand duke.” She gave them a look. “You will not apprise the grand duke. The grand duke will not be apprised of this matter until after you are well on your way to Turin, much too long gone for the expedition to be recalled. Is this understood?”
Four of them shifted uneasily in their chairs. Sophia felt like moaning. An intrigue. How wonderful. Not!
“My daughter–Vittoria, my oldest daughter–will be in Turin while you are there. It will be such a nice little family visit when she comes to see Claude and Nicolas-François. A vacation. I’m sure that everything is at sixes and sevens in Florence, with bureaucrats and palace staff running around frantically trying to arrange everything for the public wedding ceremony next summer, borrowing this, renting that, attempting to achieve more splendor than anyone else, showing Borja and the Spanish that Tuscany is not economically stressed. Just a nice vacation.”
Marcie cudgeled her brain. Grand Duchess Claudia’s oldest daughter, the one from her first marriage to the assassinated Duke Federigo of Urbino. Vittoria would be how old now? Fifteen? Fifteen and a few months? So Claudia had arranged a nice family visit for Vittoria, but a potentially touchy one, given that Duke Victor Amadeus of Savoy was married to Christine Marie of France, Monsieur Gaston’s sister, and the situation in France was anything but tranquil.
She drummed one finger on her knee, trying to think. Up-time, you were pretty much either married or not married. There wasn’t much in between. Down-time, there could be multiple layers. The higher the rank of the spouses, usually, the more layers there were. Vittoria was sort-of-but-not-yet-completely married to her first cousin, the scientifically and artistically inclined Ferdinando II de’' Medici, Grand Duke of Tuscany. They’d been betrothed, which was legally enforceable contract, when the girl was a year old. They’d been privately married three years ago, as soon as Vittoria turned twelve and could consent under canon law. But Ferdinando had taken the best advice of midwives to the effect that it shouldn’t yet be consummated, because she was too young for safe childbearing, and postponed the public wedding ceremony. Everyone–at least everyone with an interest in Italian politics–knew that was forthcoming next summer.
So. What did Claudia want to have said to her daughter that she didn’t want to risk putting on paper in a letter that, even encrypted as securely as possible, might be intercepted and read by someone else. It could be a foreign someone else. It could be a Tuscan courtier or someone else. That didn’t much matter.
Chapter 45
“M
rs. Dunn offered to cut my hair short,” Sophia said, “... to get rid of the bleached and dyed much-too-often curled part that is so brittle and breaks off.” She wiggled a strand of her hair. “She says it would be a very short pixie cut.”
Ruvigny wasn’t sure whether his wife wanted this or not. Her expression was rather dubious, but he couldn’t tell what she was dubious about: cutting her hair or not cutting her hair.
“I don’t know how Duke Victor Amadeus would react to a very up-time style,” he finally said. “Maybe leave it this way until after the Savoy mission and have Mrs. Dunn cut it after we get back. That would give her three or so more months of growth to work with.” He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back on the pillows.
“Savoy!” Sophia sat straight up. “You’re taking me? I’m going to Savoy?”
“Yes, you are going to Savoy. Didn’t you know?”
“I guess, I just assumed, that you would leave me here. Out of the way.”
Ruvigny shook his head. “No, you’re coming with us.” He looked at her hair again. It was a bit...odd...right now. “For your hair, maybe you could ask Susanna Allegretti to design something to...I’m not sure...decorate it somehow? I know the current fashion is for women to go bareheaded, but something that would hide where the brunette is growing in? That’s not exactly my specialty.”
“Oh, my.” Sophia considered what amounted to a license to shop. “Yes, I’m sure she can.” Then. “You’re really taking me along? You’re not just teasing?”
“I’m really taking you along.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“I thought we were supposed to keep Sophia out of the limelight for a while,” Bismarck worried. “That’s what Christian IV said.”
“I don’t think she’ll really be in the limelight in Savoy,” Ruvigny answered. “Also, I’m be
ginning to subscribe to the “‘keep her too busy to recite an eternal litany of grievances, real or imagined”’ theory of matrimony.”
“Let it roll off your back,” Bismarck suggested. “I have four sisters. My mother says that they all did the same thing when they were sixteen or seventeen, and they didn’t even have very many real grievances.”
“Sophia did have real ones, I think.” Ruvigny stood up. “I just wish that she would let go of them for a while. There were some good things that happened to her, too. The other day, I asked her what she would like to have, if she could have anything she in the world that she wanted. Her answer was, ‘Miss Joanie.’ It turned out that Miss Joanie was a woman named Joan Smith from Grantville, so I talked to Lisa Lund to find out exactly who she was. Lisa remembered that Hank Smith has been working for his father these last few years. She brought to the Grand Duke’s attention that there might be a great reason, on the face of it nothing to do with industrial espionage at all, to invite Hank and Joanie for a visit–since Hal Smith does sort of tend to have aircraft available to use and there’s such a nice little airfield outside of town. I thought it would be a nice surprise.”
“Keep her too busy to exchange snips with Marguerite, more likely,” Bismarck answered. “I understand that the other afternoon, our darling little daisy of a Rohanette informed the new bride that if she ever did anything at all during her marriage to make you regret it, she, personally, would see to it that Lady Sophia would wish she were dead as a merciful escape from the fire and brimstone vengeance that would rain down upon her.”
Ring of Fire - 1635_ The Legions of Pestilence Page 34