Ring of Fire IV

by Eric Flint

  Leaving aside the informality of the language, their undemonstrative greeting upon his arrival would have done any margrave and margravine proud.

  “You okay, hon?” he asked, when he came into the big entry chamber that also served as a mess hall when all the troops were in the barracks. Missy was sitting at a table against one of the walls with Eva.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “D’you get everything settled with the Hessians?”

  “Much as we can for the time being. How’re things shaping up down here?”

  “Well enough—given that there’s still not a lot we can do except help to settle things down. But that’s mostly work for Harry and Vincente. You want to meet our new employees?”

  “Maybe in a day or two. I’m still looking a little cross-eyed at their qualifications. ‘Experienced at taking boss’s wife hostage’ isn’t what you normally run across in a job application.”

  Missy smiled. “Especially since they flunked the qualifying exam. I admit that’s mostly because of Harry.” Her lips tightened a little. “Even if he’s not my favorite person in the whole wide world.”

  “You aren’t still pissed at him?”

  “Like they say, that glass is half-empty. Or is it half-full? I can never remember.”

  She rose, gave her husband a kiss and an embrace, and then pointed at Eva. “She’s still besotted with him, though, so I make allowances as best I can.”

  Ron nodded by way of a greeting, then asked, “What are you writing now?”

  Eva looked down at the papers in front of her. “Just finishing the book. Or trying to, at least. I’m not happy yet with anything I’ve come up with for an ending.”

  “I suggested she end the book by saying ‘and then I jumped his bones,’” said Missy. “But she thinks that’s too crude.”

  Eva shook her head. “It’s not the crudeness I object to, it’s the violation of narrative distance. The Adventures of Captain Lefferts, as told to Eva Katherine von Anhalt-Dessau suggests a certain detachment on the part of the author. Hard to maintain that image when the reader knows that some of the tales were recorded while the author and her subject were nude, sweaty and entangled.”

  She smiled very cheerfully. “Which we have often been, of late.”

  * * *

  Litsa came charging into the room, holding several copies of a publication of the type that the French call a bibliothèque bleue and Germans called a Volksbuch. It was basically a broadside folded and cut so as to make an eight-page chapbook. The French typically used a cheap blue paper cover, but this one had a cover that seemed of somewhat better quality and was illustrated by the image of a peering eye. The image was clearly patterned after an Eye of Horus, but the artist had somehow managed to impart a vaguely leering aspect to it.

  As Litsa came up to them, the title of the chapbook could be seen emblazoned across the top: THE NATIONAL OBSERVER. With a slogan inscribed in smaller letters just below:

  Enquiring minds want to know!

  “No,” Ron groaned. “Please tell me that isn’t what it looks like.”

  “The very first issue!” Litsa exclaimed happily. “It just came from the printer.” She passed out copies to all of them. “The center story is mine. Not under my own name, of course.”

  Opening the chapbook, they saw the story headline. It was hard to miss.

  CAPTAIN LEFFERTS AND THE HOCHADEL VIXEN

  By Agnetha

  Eva burst into laughter. “By Agnetha! You are shameless, Litsa—shameless!”

  Litsa grinned. “I thought it was—what is the American term?—‘a nice touch,’ I think.”

  Missy looked puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

  “Agnetha is the German version of the Greek name Hagne,” Eva explained. “The name is derived from the word hagnos, which means ‘chaste.’”

  She read through the first part of the story. “Which this article is anything but.”

  She read another few sentences. “That’s not true at all!” Another few. “Oh! That’s pure slander!”

  And so it went, until she finished. Holding up the chapbook, she said: “This is a complete tissue of lies and fabrications, with just the occasional nugget of half-truths embedded in it.”

  But she was smiling when she said it.

  “You’re not offended?” Missy asked curiously. “Or worried this will give you a bad reputation?”

  Eva dropped the chapbook onto the table and shrugged. “No, there’s no clear description of this so-called ‘Hochadel vixen.’ Beyond generic nonsense like ‘voluptuous’ and ‘slinky’—which is particularly silly because Litsa’s using the root of the German word ‘schleichen’ which doesn’t really mean the same thing at all. She’ll probably get away with it, though, since this is written in Amideutsch. She just added a new bastard to that already illegitimate tongue.”

  She studied the cover of the chapbook for a moment, her lips pursed. “It’s true that there are enough personal details about the ‘vixen’ that someone who knew me could figure it out, but not unless they knew me well. That’s because of the critical detail that Litsa omitted.”

  Eva reached up and stroked her face. “There’s no mention of the pox scars. Without those, no one will think of me. Well, my brother John Casimir, since he has a low mind, and one or two of my nosy sisters. But I was going to tell my brother about Harry, anyway. Better he finds out directly from me than second-hand.”

  Ron had been reading the story himself. “I got to tell you, Litsa, the writing’s pretty awful. I’d call it purple prose except it’s more like ultra-violet. No, more like gamma ray prose.”

  Litsa grinned again. “I know I don’t write well. That’s a real problem when I’m working on a Simplicissimus story, but for this it’s perfect. It makes the stuff seem authentic.”

  “Using the term ‘authentic’ creatively,” mused Missy, who was also reading the article. “Kind of like saying that torture is the new massage.”

  “Yeah, I can hear the words shrieking,” said Ron, wincing at a particularly tormented clause.

  “None of this is helping me figure out a good ending for my book,” Eva complained.

  June 1, 1636

  The solution to Eva’s problem arrived the next month, in the person of one Baldur Norddahl, sometime Norwegian adventurer and currently the right-hand man of Prince Ulrik of Denmark.

  He was looking for Captain Lefferts, but had to wait five days for Harry to return from one of his patrols. Norddahl didn’t seem in the least bit impatient, however.

  “I have no objection to lounging about in the luxury of what used to be the wing of a palace and still looks pretty much the same,” he commented. “It’s unfortunate that your plumbers haven’t arrived yet to install the up-time toilet, of course.”

  Missy had insisted on that—and damn the cost. Her husband hadn’t argued the point. He was no more fond of seventeenth-century toilet arrangements than she was.

  “Still,” Norddahl continued, “it’s a great step up from my days as a slave for the Barbary pirates.”

  Litsa had been sitting in on the conservation. Her face now got the intense expression that always came to her when she spotted a possible story—all the more intense if it would be a story for The National Observer instead of Simplicissimus.

  “Is it true that lascivious Moorish girls love to cavort with their slaves?” she demanded. “As a way of gaining some experience before they pass themselves off as virgins to their Moorish grooms. You always hear that.”

  The Norwegian laughed. “Not likely!”

  “Wrong answer,” she said, frowning.

  “Well, there were stories, of course.”

  Litsa smiled. “Better answer. What were they?”

  * * *

  The next evening, when Eva, Ron and Missy met to discuss the business of the day, Litsa was absent.

  “Where is she?” asked Ron. “I haven’t noticed Baldur around anywhere, either.”

  Missy got a prim expression o
n her face. Eva pointed toward the upper floors. “Litsa’s investigating the likelihood of Norddahl’s improbable but not impossible tales. That part of it which can be investigated without going to Algiers or Salé, at least.”

  “They’ve been at it since late last night,” Missy said. She gave Eva a very disapproving look. “Litsa’s supposed to be a Calvinist like you, is that right?”

  Eva nodded. “Yes, we both belong to the Reformed church. There are not many Lutherans in our part of the Germanies.”

  “Huh!” Missy shook her head. “I swear, every illusion I ever had about Puritans has now been trampled flat. Completely flat. Squished-by-an-elephant flat.”

  Missy had once explained to the curious—and then appalled—princess of Anhalt-Dessau the history of the Puritans. At least, as interpreted by late twentieth-century Americans.

  “I told you, that history made no sense at all. The teachings of the Reformed church can be quite stringent on theological matters, yes.” Eva waved her hand dismissively. “But those issues involving sex that seem to preoccupy Americans so often—pfah. Didn’t any of you ever read the Bible?”

  Ron was now curious himself. “Yeah, I figured that out about Calvinists a while back. But you do take your creed very seriously about some issues. Like, for instance, Harry’s a Catholic. What happens if your betrothal culminates in a marriage?”

  “We discussed that already. Harry will convert, of course.” Eva got a rather prim expression herself—something which came very rarely to the woman. “He has a properly dismissive attitude toward papistry. I admit, that comes more from a general indifference to theology than a truly suitable doctrinal stance. But I don’t care that much and no parson—certainly not one employed by my family—will ask any awkward questions. The fact of the conversion will be enough.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Missy.

  “No, not at all. Why would I?”

  “Harry Lefferts? A born-again Calvinist? Oh, my aching brain.”

  June 6, 1636

  When Harry came back to the barracks, his first words were: “I’d say we ought to celebrate D-Day a few centuries early, except that it’ll never happen now.”

  Then, spotting the Norwegian in the small group that had gathered to meet him, his face became impassive. “Baldur Norddahl, in the very flesh. I haven’t seen you since Copenhagen—what was that? More than two years ago. Am I right in assuming that I’m the reason you’re here? And if so, why?”

  Norddahl smiled thinly. “Yes, I came to see you. As to the reason… It will begin, I think, with another invasion of France. A quiet one, though. No guns will be needed.”

  Harry’s responding smile was even thinner. “At the beginning, you mean.”

  The Norwegian nodded. “At the beginning. Later…Yes. If all goes well.”

  Ron shook his head. “You guys have a really screwed-up definition of ‘if all goes well.’ I’m thinking you don’t need—or want, for that matter—anyone else involved in this discussion except Harry.”

  “That is correct,” said Norddahl. “I mean no offense, but I would prefer to speak to Captain Lefferts privately.”

  “Believe me, none is taken. Come on, Missy. Loose lips sink ships and we don’t want to hear this anyway.”

  “You got that right.” His wife turned to follow. “Eva, Litsa, you coming?”

  Harry placed a hand on Eva’s shoulder, holding her in place. “She stays, Baldur. If that doesn’t suit you, so be it. You know the way out.”

  “I’m staying too!” insisted Litsa. “There’s a story here—don’t try to lie to me, Baldur!”

  He shook his head. “Yes, there’s a story—but not one you’d be able to tell for quite a while. If ever.”

  “I’m very patient.”

  “Not in my experience,” he said, grinning quickly. Then, sobering, he shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t really care if you stay—but if you do, you are sworn to silence until released from your oath. Which won’t be sworn to me, but to the emperor.”

  That brought a measure of solemnity to everyone. Baldur waited until the Stone couple had left the room. Then he said to Harry:

  “I assume you’ve heard the story about the Swedish queen’s murder last October. And the assassination attempt on Princess Kristina and Prince Ulrik that was part of the plot.”

  Harry nodded. “The one that has Richelieu being behind the plot? Yes, I’ve heard it—but I stopped believing in fairy tales when I was about seven or so.”

  Norddahl cocked his head a bit. “You don’t believe it, then?”

  “No, of course not. It makes no sense.”

  “What do you think is a more likely explanation?”

  This time, it was Lefferts who grinned quickly. “Why should I waste my time and effort explaining when it’s obvious you’re about to tell me? But if I was a betting man—which I am, now that I think about it—I’d put my money on the same Huguenot fanatics who tried to kill the pope.”

  “That is my theory as well. Mine and Prince Ulrik’s, I should say. We discussed it at some length before I left Magdeburg.”

  Harry ran fingers through the short beard he favored. “You want me to work with you on it?”

  “Yes.” Norddahl patted his jacket. “I have a commission here signed by the emperor himself. There’s a generous stipend, a bonus if we complete the mission successfully”—again, the quick grin appeared—“and a promotion to colonel. Also contingent upon success, of course. That would be a colonelship in the Swedish army, by the way. It wouldn’t affect your rank in the USE’s military.”

  Harry looked at Eva. “What do you think, hard-headed woman? Is a promotion likely to sway your brother on the dowry? And if so, is it worth being separated for a while?”

  Eva shook her head. “No separation would be needed.” She turned to Norddahl. “Am I right in assuming that you will begin this mission by visiting Henri de Rohan?”

  “Yes. If there’s anything happening among the Huguenots, the duke is almost certain to know something about it.” Baldur shrugged. “Whether he will be willing to confide in us is uncertain.”

  Eva displayed her own quick grin. “How fortunate for you, then, that you will have me on the mission. Since I have something I can dangle under Duke Henri’s nose by way of possible reward if he’s cooperative.”

  Now, both Norddahl and Lefferts looked keenly interested. So did Litsa, of course.

  “And what’s that?” asked Harry.

  “Everyone knows—well, everyone in the Reformed nobility—that the duke of Rohan is almost desperate to find a suitable husband for his daughter Marguerite, who is his only heir. And it so happens that another of my brothers, Georg Aribert, is close to the same age as Marguerite—not that that matters much, of course.”

  “He’s still single?” asked Litsa. “I thought he was sniffing after that—I forget her name—?”

  “He still is. But since that would have to be a morganatic marriage, my oldest brother John Casimir is not happy with the idea and would be delighted—no, ecstatic—if I could arrange a marriage between Georg and Marguerite de Rohan.”

  She spread her hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “There’s no way to know if any of this would come to pass, of course. But it gives us a plausible reason to visit Rohan and would certainly incline him toward us favorably.”

  Norddahl was now looking at Eva much more intently than he had before. “Captain Lefferts, you do realize you’re betrothed to a schemer? The Borgias and Medicis couldn’t do any better.”

  “Yeah, isn’t she something? All right, since Eva’s okay with the idea, when do we leave? I just need a couple of days to square it with my partner Vincente. He should be back tomorrow from his patrol.”

  “The day after that, then. Unless you foresee a problem with this Vincente fellow.”

  Harry shook his head. “No, this has all become pretty routine. The key now is the anti-epidemic work, and that’s mostly in Ron and Missy’s corner from here
on. I was already starting to feel a bit like a fifth wheel around here.”

  * * *

  That night, Eva finally finished the book.

  And so, that is the last we will see of Captain Lefferts for a time. Departing on another mysterious mission, this one at the behest of Emperor Gustav Adolf himself.

  What mission? Where? That remains to be seen. Of one thing, however, we can all be sure. The day will come when all of Europe will hear about his newest exploit.

  No, one other matter is certain. Whenever that day comes, this author will be the one to tell the tale.

  —Eva Katherine von Anhalt-Dessau

  June 9, 1636

  When they reached the outskirts of Nancy, they stopped for a moment to let the horses drink from a stream by the road. For the moment, Barbeline was riding in front of Eva.

  Eva glanced at Baldur Norddahl and Donald Ohde, who were riding ahead of them, to make sure they were distant enough not to hear her. “I think I’m probably pregnant,” she said. “Although I’m not sure yet.”

  “Okay,” said Harry. “Let me know when you’re sure so we can stop”—he glanced at the girl—“with that blasted, you know. Monthly stuff. Which looks like it didn’t work anyway, so we wasted a lot of opportunity.”

  Barbeline frowned. “Make sure it’s a girl, Maman. I want a sister. Boys are disgusting.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Eva.

  PART V

  Dessau, capital of the principality of Anhalt-Dessau

  Now part of the new province of Magdeburg

  Chapter 17

  July 16, 1636

  “You have to put a stop to it!” said Sibylle Christine, the countess of Hanau-Münzenberg. She had a chapbook clutched in her fist which she waved under the prince of Anhalt-Dessau’s nose. “This is Eva Katherine in this disgraceful thing even if they don’t name her! You know it is! And there are other stories about her too! It’s not just this!”