The Cardinal shifted in his seat. “A formality only, Your Grace. It is Julianus, not I, who has confined you. I assure you, I find this state of affairs as deplorable as you do. As you know, the Church has only a limited role in the internal affairs of the sovereign nation of England.”
“Yes, of course. Which is why the Church has headquartered its own private army not half a mile from the Royal Palace.”
“As protection against any member of the Council of Lords who might take it into their heads to use their soldiers improperly. The true Pope in Paris felt it expedient, in an abundance of caution, to protect the Church’s interests after your father brought back private levies.” He shifted in his chair. “That is not what concerns us today. I aim merely to facilitate the ecclesiastical tribunal that will adjudicate your guilt or innocence.” He coughed delicately again. “Beyond that, I have no direct authority.”
“You split some very fine semantic hairs,” Margaret said. “Should we ever need the services of a master hairdresser, we shall consult with you.”
He inclined his head. “We all have our parts to play. Mine is limited to the matter of the selection of the tribunal and offering it what advice and counsel I may have.”
The Cardinal arranged his face into what he hoped was a generous expression. He was having a good day, or at least as close as he ever approached to having a good day. He appeared quite relaxed, which set Margaret’s nerves jangling. Few people advanced far in the Church’s hierarchy without a generous helping of ruthless opportunism. Religious institutions bred it into their upper echelons. When such men were happy, it usually meant they spied an opportunity for someone else’s misfortune.
“Advice and counsel. That’s what you call it? Hmm. We should love to be in a position where we have nothing to offer but advice and counsel, if we get to choose the ones we’re advising.”
The Cardinal picked up the delicate china cup sitting in front of him. He examined it for a moment, sniffed its contents, then set it back down again. “I am certain,” he said, “that your allegiance is to the true and rightful Catholic Church, and to the Pope in France, not the corrupt Church in Rome.”
“This goes without saying,” Margaret said. Her voice was wintry.
“In a case such as this, when one is under a cloud of suspicion, there is little that goes without saying. It is best, I think, to be explicit about where your loyalties lie.”
“No doubt you already have ideas about how we might make our loyalties explicit,” Margaret said.
“As I’ve said, Your Grace, I do not believe you are a heretic or a Roman sympathizer. Tomorrow’s meeting of the Council of Lords is important. If Your Grace chooses to attend, the Church will register no objection.”
“We are relieved to hear it. We thought we had just heard you say that the law requires our imprisonment until the tribunal.”
The Cardinal smiled. The overall effect could give nightmares to small children. “The lovely thing about the Law is there is so very much of it, and it so often contradicts itself. One merely needs to look hard enough and one can find a precedent for almost anything. The Church employs the finest lawyers to be found anywhere outside the gates of Hell itself. I have every confidence they can find a compelling legal case for your presence.”
“And thus does the Church involve itself in the affairs of the State after all.” Margaret took a sip of her tea. “What quo might the Church expect in return for this particular quid?”
The Cardinal leaned back, arms folded. “The Church seeks nothing but the glory of God. The affairs of state are secondary to the salvation of man. What things of this earth could possibly matter more than the Kingdom of Heaven? The state is naught but a foundation upon which God’s works can be built. It is only on those occasions when something threatens to upset that stability that the Church feels called to act. The succession of power in the monarchy is one such occasion. Stability requires—nay, demands—a clear path of succession.” He cleared his throat. “When a ruler reaches the age of majority without choosing a spouse or producing an heir, that creates a matter of great interest to the Church.”
Margaret’s face grew cold. “We hope you are not suggesting that the Church should choose a husband for us in exchange for allowing us to attend a Council meeting.”
The Cardinal spread his hands. “I would not dream of making such a suggestion, Your Grace. At most, I might propose an introduction, nothing more. The Marquis de Chambert is without a wife. He is a fine, upstanding man from a noble family…”
“Is he?” Margaret said sweetly. “A God-fearing man, I presume?”
“Yes, he—”
“A man who takes his direction from the Pope? A man who might use his influence over his wife to see things from the Church’s point of view?”
“Your Grace, I wouldn’t say—”
“No, of course you wouldn’t. You’re never that direct. You always come slithering in sideways, don’t you?”
“Your Grace,” the Cardinal protested, “you wound me. I simply think—”
“The answer is no. We will hold no council save our own about this.”
The Cardinal shook his head sadly. “This is most vexing, Your Grace, most vexing indeed. On the one hand, it seems inconceivable that your sympathies might lie with Rome. On the other, your intransigence in the face of reasonable guidance from the rightful Church in France will surely raise questions with the tribunal.”
“I think you mean to say you will raise questions with the tribunal,” Margaret corrected.
“I can only do what my conscience dictates.”
“Your conscience or your ambition? The servants of the Church are known for many things, but stupidity is not among them. The tribunal will not be swayed. Refusing to accept a husband you choose for me hardly proves collusion with Rome.”
“Nevertheless, I think the tribunal will like to see that you are agreeable to the true Church,” the Cardinal said. “It is the appearance of the thing. Even something small, to show—”
“To show that I am an obedient lapdog?”
The Cardinal sighed. “To show that you are not an enemy of the Church.” He steepled his fingers in front of him, glaring at Margaret. She waited patiently, expressionless.
Finally, he spoke. “The issue in front of the Council of Lords tomorrow. You are referring to the petition to allow use of animates for military purposes, yes?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“The Serpent of Rome has been clear in his opposition to animates from the moment they were first invented,” the Cardinal said. “Life from unlife, he calls it. He sees it as a mockery of God’s creation. I believe you share that position, Your Grace.”
“We care little for theological debates about the nature of God’s creation or how many angels can dance on a pin,” Margaret said. “We care more for the consequences of our actions in this world than in the next.”
“Then let us discuss the matters of this world. Your nation and mine have been at war with the Spanish and the Italians for hundreds of years. We have fought to a stalemate in both the Old World and the New. This cannot continue. Now, in our time, we have before us an opportunity to turn the tide. We can put an end, once and for all, to countless years of bloodshed. It is within our grasp, if we but have the courage to reach out and take it.”
“The pretend Pope in his palace in Rome may be wrong in his reasons, but even such as he may sometimes be right in his conclusions. If the false Pope in Rome said the sky was blue, would you expect us to prove our independence by issuing a royal decree that it is green, merely to spite him?”
The Cardinal scowled. “Your Grace, I don’t think—”
Margaret put down her cup. “Obviously.”
“It is a small thing, Your Grace,” the Cardinal said. “But even such a small thing would send a clear message. You are not in the sway of
Rome. You desire, as I do, to defeat the enemies of England and ensure a lasting peace. You stand in opposition to the position of the Roman heretics.”
“What about the true Pope in Paris? We hear the theological implications of animate creation are still being debated in the halls of St. Vincent’s. We are told he is leaning toward declaring the creation of animates a sinful act. Do you want to put us on the wrong side of both Popes?”
The Cardinal inclined his head. “His Holiness Pope Simon IV has not indicated where his thoughts lie on the matter. This may become a rare point of agreement between the true Pope and the false. But consider the effect that an advantage over the enemies of the true Church might have. Should the animates become the key to erasing the Roman heresy from the world, they would be doing God’s work.”
Margaret looked at the Cardinal with calculating eyes. “Wheels within wheels,” she said finally. “The true Pope is not a young man. How is his health these days? Poor, we hear. If you were to announce a weapon to defeat the Church’s enemies, this would no doubt greatly impress the College of Cardinals when the time comes to elect a new Pope.”
“All I want,” the Cardinal said carefully, “is for our two nations, united, to gain, once and for all, the upper hand against Spain and Italy.” He was not accustomed to feeling uncomfortable, and he decided he didn’t much like it. “The war in the New World has been going on too long without either side gaining an advantage. Meanwhile, many die in the skirmishes here on the Continent, and for what? Nothing! This stalemate must end.”
“Why, Your Eminence, we had no idea you were such an optimist,” Margaret said. “Do you know the problem with optimism? Optimists forget the law of unintended consequence. An end to war? Have you learned nothing from history? One’s enemies never stay vanquished. They adapt, or new enemies rise to take their place. Animates are mindless monsters. They feel no pain and have no allegiance to anyone save those who know the right words to set them loose or make them stop. They have no honor. They do not understand the rules of war.” She leaned forward, green eyes blazing. “They are not people. They are things. Who wages war in such a way, sending things instead of people into battle?”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, the history of war is the history of the military arts,” the Cardinal protested. “The sword, the pike, the siege engine, the cannon. Would you have men today cast aside their rifles to charge into combat with stone knives?”
“The pike and the cannon are wielded by men,” Margaret said. “Men who know when and how to use them. More importantly, men who know when not to. Wars are fought by men. What honor is there in staying out of harm’s way many miles from battle and sending things in your place to do your fighting for you? War is a nasty business. The losses we might face sometimes give us pause to look for other ways to resolve our conflicts. When we no longer need to stay our hand for fear of our own casualties, I fear it will make us all the more eager to reach for war as a first resort instead of a last. What will that do to those we oppose?”
“It should make them more agreeable to our desires, I expect,” the Cardinal said.
Margaret studied his face for a long moment, then shook her head. “Do you really know so little of the hearts of men? If our enemies understand they cannot hurt us on the battlefield, they will find other ways to hurt us. They will not just bow to our might. Men are too proud for that.” She sighed, her expression softening. “If they know that we can hurt them but they cannot hurt us, they will simply look for other places to put the knife. What you propose will not be the end of war. It will make war more ugly. And you’re forgetting how delicate things are in the Colonies. Both our nations need the goodwill of the natives to fight the Spaniards. If we bring animates onto the battlefield, we risk destroying our alliance. The natives are superstitious and will not look kindly upon armies of the dead.”
The Cardinal shrugged. “That is a question I leave to our generals, and yours,” he said. “With the animates, we may no longer need the natives, in war or in peace.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her mental ledger of reasons to dislike the Cardinal gained a new entry.
“You argue passionately in favor of these new weapons of war. What is it to you?”
The Cardinal inclined his head. “As I have said, it is merely a gesture. A token to show that you are willing to take counsel from the true Church, and oppose the false.”
“And if we refuse?” Margaret said. “If we place the good of the nation over our own good?”
“The tribunal will evaluate the facts on the table and reach its conclusion. They might ask why you would decline to pursue every opportunity to press the advantage against our enemies, and why you stand in such solidarity with the false Pope.”
Margaret leaned back, studying the cleric through narrowed eyes. Eventually, she shook her head slightly. “You play a dangerous game. We are not without our supporters. The seat of the Church’s authority is in Paris, and we are a very long way from Paris.”
“Not so far as you might think.” The Cardinal shrugged. “It is a small gesture, Your Grace, but small gestures matter.”
The two sat for a long moment in silence. When Margaret finally spoke, her voice was tinged with resignation and barely contained bitterness. “Very well. You have your small gesture. We will vote as you suggest. You must be very pleased.”
The Cardinal permitted himself a small smile. “I want nothing save the glory of God and what is best for our nations, Your Grace,” he said.
“It is unbecoming of you to lie so transparently. But while we are speaking of expedience, I think we are finished with this conversation. If you will forgive us, Your Eminence, it has been a long day, and we must pray you take your leave.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said. He bowed slightly.
“Your Eminence.”
The Cardinal left, his face less sour than it normally was.
10
The study of human history leads inevitably to the conclusion that there is no greater entertainment to be had than the contemplation of the misery of another. At no point in space or time had this tendency been more refined than in London, where entire industries had sprung up around the mass dissemination of other people’s misfortune. London tabloids traded in misery as their standard medium of exchange, and thanks to the events on the airship, that trade was booming. Newspaper headlines shouted from every street corner. Cries of “News of the century! Queen Margaret under arrest! Read the story!” swirled around Julianus and Max as they shouldered their way through the crowds.
Max growled at a young boy staggering under a load of newspapers. “This is a disgrace,” he said. “Look at these people, feeding on rumors and deceit. Disgraceful!”
Julianus looked up, shading his eyes from the hazy midafternoon sun. “This must be close to the place,” he said.
“This is a complete waste of time.”
“You didn’t have to come,” Julianus said mildly, looking at the row of shops stretching along the broad street.
“What? And let you prance around with one of my men, filling his head with—hey, I’m talking to you! Filling his head with nonsense and lies about…hey!” He poked a finger in the center of Julianus’s engraved golden breastplate. Julianus looked down at the offending digit, then up at Max’s angry, sweating face, then back down at the prodding finger, holding his gaze steady until Max withdrew it. “Filling his head full of nonsense and lies about the Queen,” he finished. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you. I still don’t see why we’re here.”
“We’re here,” Julianus said with the patient tone one might use with a particularly recalcitrant and not overly intelligent child who didn’t understand why he should have to finish his supper, “because if someone did take a dive out of the Queen’s airship, he would probably come down somewhere around here.”
“If he flew out on a kite like your man says, he might have come down anywhere.”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” Julianus said. “But I don’t think so. He wouldn’t want to risk landing in the river. And it was rainy last night. He couldn’t see very far. I think he would want to get to the ground as quickly as possible. Well, not exactly as quickly as possible, but you know what I mean.” He strode down the street, moving so fast that Max had to run to keep up.
People parted around the two men the way water parts around the prow of a ship: it doesn’t particularly want to, but the ship doesn’t care. Julianus looked down each intersection as they crossed.
“What are you looking for?” Max said.
“I don’t know,” Julianus said.
“Then how the blazes do you expect to find it?”
“I don’t know,” Julianus said again.
“Disgraceful,” Max said. “They will let anyone into the Guard these days.”
“So it seems,” Julianus agreed. “Shameful, isn’t it?”
The machinery of Max’s mind processed the statement for a time before the gears whirred and ground into the proper configuration. “Now wait just one minute!”
But Julianus was already several paces ahead, craning his head to peer down every alley. He looked up at the sky, then back down again, muttering. He crossed the street, heedless of a giant four-legged clanker dragging three long iron wagons loaded with coal. The clanker driver was forced to stop so fast that the wagons crashed into each other, sending a shower of coal onto the street. Julianus ignored him, even when the driver sounded a long blast of his steam whistle to express his displeasure. Julianus turned and walked back the way he had come, still looking up. Max hurried after him.
And so they traveled the streets of New Old London, the two of them: Julianus following an erratic route, looking down every street and alleyway; Max trailing behind, muttering impolite things under his breath. They followed an ever-widening path out from the center of the city, through streets crowded with people, horses, clankers, and once, a handful of confused-looking goats being driven by a harried-looking man in blue overalls.
Black Iron Page 10