The receiving line moved again, perhaps four feet.
Brahe and his wife came into view.
He didn't take off the hat. As a duke, he outranked a Swedish nobleman. As an officer, Brahe was not in his direct chain of command. The hat stayed on.
Tata's father would not approve.
There was a place for "all men are created equal," but it wasn't at an official reception with the cream of Mainz's secular and ecclesiastical patriciate, not to mention miscellaneous diplomats and the like, in attendance.
He wasn't going to take off his hat for the archbishop, either. Say what you would, it simply wasn't right for a good Lutheran to doff his hat to a subordinate of the earthly manifestation of the anti-Christ, the specific example of the manifestation now alive being named Urban VIII.
He supposed that the papists had a right to go to hell in their own way, as long as they didn't interfere with other people. Lutherans especially. Subscribing to the principle of religious toleration did not mean that he had to take off his hat for Anselm Casimir Wamboldt von Umstadt who was, when one came right down to it, by birth of far lower rank than a duke of Württemberg.
He reached the receiving line.
Eberhard glanced cautiously to his left. Brahe's wife was walking toward him, a predatory gleam in her eye. He moved slightly to the right, behind Ulfsparre. He took off his hat. Without the plumes he would be, he hoped, effectively invisible.
Ulfsparre moved to the farther to the right.
"Stay," Eberhard said. "Please, Mans."
"They're set on marrying off Brahe's sister. I've been in their sights for weeks. The least you can do is vent some of the pressure, as the new club of 'steamheads' here in Mainz would say. You're going back to Fulda in two weeks. Before you leave, let me take you and your friends to see the new steam engine down by the docks." Ulfsparre slid between two substantial matrons and vanished into a gaggle of other young officers.
Eberhard sighed.
Anna Margareta Bielke tentatively floated some conversational gambits about the Lutheran view of matrimony as one of God's greatest gifts to mankind, far higher than the papist preference for celibacy.
Eberhard could hardly object. It was hard to contradict the Shorter Catechism.
She mentioned that the value of a good wife was above rubies.
Eberhard replied practically that given the current economic condition of the duchy, from which he was, in any case, exiled, rubies were pretty much out of the question, as were pearls, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds.
She gestured at one of the display paintings on the wall.
Eberhard agreed solemnly that the story of Tobias and Susanna, although contained in the Apocrypha, was one of the most touching Biblical narratives.
She spoke of this. She prodded with reference to that.
Eberhard parried.
There was one consolation. Since he came through the reception line, he had not seen Lady Kerstin. She had politely offered her hand. She had not glanced at him flirtatiously. Presumably, she had danced, but not with him. She had disappeared.
The evening seemed interminable.
Toward the end, however, he had the satisfaction of not taking off his hat to the archbishop of Mainz. And several people complimented him on his new suit. It was in the up-time style. The tailor in Fulda had done a splendid job of reproducing the one shown in a magazine photograph of a man named "Liberace."
"You could do worse than Lady Kerstin," Erik Stenbock said. "Mans could do worse. I could do a lot worse. She's not ugly; she's not stupid; she's not silly. Silly and stupid aren't the same thing. A girl—Lady Kerstin is a grown woman, really—can be stupid and sensible, or smart and silly. Plus, the Brahes haven't lost their estates. She'll come to her husband with a great honking big dowry."
"Think of it as a compliment," Ulfsparre said. "I heard that they're even thinking about Erik Haakansson Hand as a possibility. They're looking as high as a cousin of the king. His mother was illegitimate, of course, but the Vasa blood is there."
"You didn't seem very complimented yesterday evening," Eberhard said. "You were ducking out of sight as fast as you could scamper."
"I'm here. Hand is not in the Upper Palatinate any more, I don't think, but he's somewhere other than here."
Stenbock laughed. "From what I heard, he'll be somewhere other than Mainz until they either marry Lady Kerstin off or take her back to Sweden."
"You're not holding off because of your little CoC . . ." Ulfsparre stopped. Stenbock had kicked him under the table. ". . . girl from the Horn of Plenty, are you?" he finished. "Depending on Lady Kerstin's attitude—or how much attitude you're willing to put up with—you could keep die Donnerin on as your mistress. Or just drop her, if that's what is required for you to enter into a suitable marriage. She's young enough to find someone else, not to mention her . . ."
Stenbock kicked him under the table again.
"The gossip is all over the city," Justina said. "They say that Brahe's wife wants to make a marriage between Eberhard and her sister-in-law."
"Ach." Ursula Widder put her handkerchief to her eyes. "Our poor, sweet Tata. Abandoned by her lover."
"At least," Reichard said, "the CoC is well enough established in Mainz by now that it can survive without his patronage."
Eberhard tossed his clothes on the stool and threw himself into the bed as fast as he could. There weren't any fireplaces on the third floor of the Horn of Plenty. The little bedroom felt almost like home. It didn't feel like "home" like the ducal palaces in Stuttgart or Mömpelgard, but he hadn't seen those for years. It felt a lot more like home than his cabin at Barracktown bei Fulda did.
"I'm not going to do it."
Tata was already under the duvet. "I'm not so sure that 'just say no' is the best idea right now." She rolled over. "It's not that I want you to marry her, but honestly, Brahe's in a position either to press your cause with Gustavus Adolphus or to just leave you dangling the way you've been the last couple of years. If you were his brother-in-law, it seems to me, he'd be a lot more likely to act as your advocate."
"So my little CoC lady would like to see me reinstated? Re-duked, if you would? Not that I've ever formally renounced my title the way Friedrich has."
"No!" Tata picked up her pillow and hit him with it. "If you get re-duked, you'll go back home. If you get married . . . I don't want to see you re-duked at all. But for you, it might be the best thing. For you and Friedrich and Margarethe and your sisters." She put the pillow back under her head. "She's pregnant, you know."
"Brahe's sister isn't pregnant. At least, not by me. Is that why they want to marry her off? Did some randy Swedish royal get under her skirts? Maybe they can marry her off to Gustav's bastard son. He's only about eighteen months younger than I am."
"Margarethe, you nitwit. Margarethe is pregnant. You're going to be an uncle."
"Okay, Brahe's sister isn't pregnant. You're not pregnant, either?"
Tata shook her head. "I'm too careful. It's okay for Margarethe. She and Friedrich are married. We aren't and we never will be."
"I wouldn't give you up if I married the Lady Kerstin."
"Yes, you would, if you get re-duked. You might not want to, but you would. I'd leave. I was never cut out to be any nobleman's official mistress. Not even yours. My mouth would get me in trouble all the time, and that would make trouble for you. I'm not cut out for court life.
"Mouth." Eberhard pulled her down. "Your mouth isn't trouble. Your mouth is pretty and pink and cute." He outlined it with one finger. "The rest of you is cute, too. Let's see, your ear is cute, your . . .
The next morning, the window was covered with frost crystals. Eberhard pulled the duvet under his chin, crunched up his pillow into a ball, and lay there for a while, just looking at them glitter in the sunshine.
I'm not going to do it, he thought. The gain is all contingent and not worth the gamble.
He stared at the bright, white window pane while Tata snored softly
. There had to be some way to refuse the idea.
No, not refuse it. Just drag things out until it gets dropped, the way so many other things get dropped. Dilly-dally until Brahe forgets about it, the way Gustavus Adolphus forgot about us. It's Brahe's wife who's pushing it, anyway. String things out until she goes back to Sweden and the campaigning season opens.
He pushed his good arm under Tata's shoulder and tickled her ribs until she woke up.
Section Four: Here are the stages in the journey . . .
Barracktown bei Fulda, January 1635
"Package delivery," David Kronberg said cheerfully. He tossed a package onto the sutlery sales counter. "It came in just before closing time."
"What's that on the label?" Riffa asked.
"It says, 'Do not open until Three Kings.' "
"Three Kings?" She scrunched up her forehead. "What's that?"
"Presents day, presents day, presents day." Gertrud chanted as she pounced on it with enthusiasm. "Oh. It's not for me. It's for Jeffie and Joel. Maybe it's a lump of coal and some switches."
"Wrong shape."
"Who's it from?"
"A bookstore in Frankfurt."
"A bookstore wouldn't be sending them a present. Someone must have ordered it."
"Eberhard and Friedrich, I bet." Gertrud tossed it on the counter. "They'll be here later."
"Jeffie and Joel or Eberhard and Friedrich?"
"The first two. The others aren't back from Mainz, yet. If the river doesn't freeze hard and the roads aren't too bad, they should be here Thursday."
"What if the Main does freeze hard and the roads are awful?"
Gertrud grimaced. "Then Jeffie and I may have to postpone our wedding if we want them to be there. And we do."
"Postpone? How long?"
"A few days. Until they get here." Gertrud shrugged. "It's no big deal—not as if we were planning on dozens of guests. Jeffie's mom and brother are already here. Justin finished his EMT course for the Military Medical Department and hasn't been assigned yet. Callmemarsha says she hasn't had a vacation since the Ring of Fire and Stevenson's Groceries owes her one. They can both stay for at least two more weeks, so we can be flexible. It's not as if we're cutting it close. The baby isn't due 'til July."
Denver Caldwell, one of the other up-timers at Fulda Barracks, looked up. "That's just 'Marsha,' Gertrud. I know she runs it all together into 'Callmemarsha-becauseI'mnotoldenoughtobeanyone'smother-in-law.' Trust me, though. Her name is Marsha."
"We really appreciate the Montaigne translation, Eberhard," Joel said. "But I've got to tell you the truth. The only way I can make sense of Florio's 1603 English is to read it out loud. Take where he's talking about the sumptuary laws, for example.
"The manner wherewith our Lawes assay to moderate the foolish and vaine expences of table-cheare and apparell seemeth contrarie to its end. The best course were to beget in men a contempt of gold and silkwearinge as of vaine and non-profitable things, whereas we encrease their credit and price: a most indirect course to withdraw men from them. As, for example, to let none but Princes eat dainties, or weare velvets and clothes of Tissew, and interdict the people to doe it, what is it but to give reputation unto those things, and to encrease their longing to use them?
"When I look at 'encrease' or 'Tissew,' they don't seem to make sense, but when I read them out loud, they turn into 'increase' and 'tissue.' I did get really messed up by table-cheare. I thought at first it meant 'table chairs,' until I figured out that it meant good cheer at the table. Food, in other words."
Eberhard looked around. "The incredible variety of clothes here would have provided Montaigne with about as much good cheer as he could use if he could have seen them."
"Sweats. Lots of sweats. No tee-shirts, but then it's January. Up-time 'Sunday best.' Down-time 'Sunday best' or whatever you call it." Joel paused. "Andrea Hill in one of her weird combinations of up-time and down-time. That—really remarkable suit you have on."
"I had it made especially for Mainz, but I decided I might as well get some use out of it. Once the campaigning season starts . . . 'How soone doe plaine chamoy-jerkins and greasie canvase doublets creepe into fashion and credit amongst our souldiers if they lie in the field?' "
Jeffie wandered over. "Quoting Montaigne again, Eberhard? Thanks for that book you sent us. It has more antique English in one place than I've seen since Ms. Higham made us do Shakespeare in drama back in high school. I was the last one to the library, so I had to check out the Collected Works instead of just the one play."
"What's Willem doing over there?"
"Van de Passe? I didn't know he was still in Fulda. I thought he was heading for Grantville."
"He'll leave when my mom goes back," Jeffie said. "He got involved in doing some stuff for Derek out here at the barracks. He's not a bad guy. He drew a wedding portrait of us and signed it. Maybe it'll be worth something, someday. I'd better go. Gertrud beckons." He wandered across the room.
Behind Joel and Eberhard, someone went, "Pssst."
Eberhard looked around.
Gertrud's next-younger brother Johann, eyes gleaming, whispered "charivari."
Tata came prancing across the room. "Ja. I talked to Frau Hill before we went to Mainz. I brought back everything we need. A good, old-fashioned, West Virginia-German Rhineland shivaree-charivari."
Johann nodded enthusiastically. "I already put the ice in their bed. If it melts a little before the end of the reception, that's even better. If it stays frozen hard, she'll just shake it out of the sheets. Tata's little brothers sent a whole box of noisemakers. Rattles. Clappers. Whistles. Some lovely things that make a howl when you whirl them around in a circle. Erdmann has already made sure that very kid in Barracktown has one. Oh, how our big sister is going to suffer."
Mainz, January 1635
"Magnificent plates," Brahe said. "I've never seen such high-quality engravings from anything other than an artist's studio." He spread the prints out approvingly. "Butler, Deveroux, Geraldin, MacDonald. Who's this?"
"Felix Gruyard. That's why the project took a couple of weeks longer than we planned. Van de Passe had no idea who he was, but Paul Moreau, that crippled artist working at the St. Severi church in Fulda, finally agreed to go through van de Passe's sketches and see if he recognized anyone. Moreau's skittish. Well, given some of the things he's been through in his life, I don't blame him for being skittish. Useful, though. He's been rattling around through various studios and printing shops for nearly twenty years, ever since he was apprenticed. He also has the advantage of being completely reliable in his loyalty to the SoTF. Or, at least, completely reliable in his loyalty to Andrea Hill. He seems to think that she walks on water. I'm not sure whether he has any abstract loyalty to the USE at all."
"How come he recognized Gruyard? I've never heard that the Lorrainer is a habitué of art galleries."
"His specialty is the reason Moreau is crippled. On Ferdinand of Bavaria's behest."
"Oh. How many of these sets can we get smuggled onto the left bank of the Rhine?"
"Depends on how many we can afford to pay the freight, load onto the Monster, and have flown into Luxembourg. Under the table, Fernando and Maria Anna have given Nasi carte blanche to use Luxembourg as a basis for smuggling them in from the eastern border of Ferdinand's lair. Send some to the Hessians and they'll get them into Bonn. Get them to our friends in the USE city-state of Cologne and I guarantee they will trickle out. Send some to Essen and they'll drift south. Van de Passe himself will send batches of them in through a kind of underground network of Mennonites."
"Aren't they pacifists of some kind?"
"Ah, Nils. I ask you. How can the distribution of sketches possibly be construed as an act of violence?"
Euskirchen, Archdiocese of Cologne, January 1635
Ferdinand of Bavaria, archbishop of Cologne, assumed his most arrogant expression. "Without Werth and Mercy, my brother has been very handicapped in sponsoring anything that requires mobility for ne
arly a year. This has made him irritable. Dragoons are not cavalry, precisely." The archbishop looked down his ample nose. "Still, dragoons are better than nothing. Maximilian refuses to send me money with which to pay you . . ."
Walter Butler nodded. Rumors of Duke Maximilian's refusal had been current for the past couple of weeks.
"He is, however, willing to hire you. I have consented . . ."
However grudgingly, Butler thought, and only because you're scraping the very bottom of your strongbox. There's no way you'll be able to pay us for another quarter unless you can find additional revenues. He looked down, gauging the archbishop's mood. "If . . ." he began.
"I will pay you for the last quarter, the one ending last month, when you leave," his employer answered. "You and the other Irishmen."
Butler closed his mouth.
He had intended to say, "If you value your skin, you will scrape together the money to pay us from somewhere for this quarter and for the next quarter. If we leave, the king in the Netherlands will come, and by the end of March, you will find yourself as one more nationalized, mediatized, Spanish-style prelate, just as the archbishop of Liége had already found himself, with your left bank lands an integral part of those very Netherlands." He snorted. If the archbishop didn't want to listen to professional advice when he had a professional available—well, blast him to hell.
* * *
"We'll have to move out by late February," Deveroux said. "I loathe winter marches, but they can be done. At least, we'll be moving south rather than north. And if the old skinflint does actually pay us, we can buy provisions. Late winter and early spring are the worst times to forage."
"Moving to the south is no guarantee of better weather." Geraldin rubbed some frost crystals off the window pane.
"It improves the odds. If we prepare for a winter march and are blessed by an early spring, so much the better."
"Aside from the mud and the floods. We have to cross the Rhine somewhere if we're going to finally put an end to Horn's endless Fabian maneuvering. He's managed to keep Bernhard and Maximilian practically immobilized for nearly four years now, without ever hazarding a battle, playing a damned chess game across the map of southwest Germany. 'You move here and I'll move there.' Pray for winter until we're across and spring in Swabia. I do not want to cross the Rhine river bottoms in the mud. I do not want to ride through the Black Forest on icy roads."
1635-The Tangled Web Page 35