by Eric Flint
"Boys," he began. Closed his mouth. Opened it. Closed it again.
"Really weird, man. First time in my life, I'm at a complete loss for words."
Magda, of course, wasn't.
* * *
But even Magda was mollified, the next day, as she observed the wedding. True, she was Lutheran and disapproved in principle of Romish idolatry and pageantry. On the other hand, like most people in Thuringia, she'd seen enough of the endless changing of official faiths as a result of the principle of cuius regio, eius religio to have become more than a little cynical on the subject.
Most of all, she was fiercely ambitious for her husband and her family. So she thought it eminently suitable and proper that the oldest of her three stepsons should be married under the most famous ceiling in the world. Besides, who was to say? Perhaps that divine spark of life transmitted from the Creator to Adam might be reflected downward—just a bit of it, but enough—to impart a modicum of common sense into her boys.
If God could create a Ring of Fire, surely He could create a sensible son. Perhaps even—Madga had her doubts, though she'd readily admit the girl was gorgeous—a sensible daughter-in-law.
It was an age of miracles, after all.
* * *
Two days later, Antonio Marcoli hobbled his way into Rome, assisted by his cousin Massimo.
By then, the Stone family—along with the four Marcoli boys who were now their in-laws—had moved into a luxurious palazzo not far from the Pantheon. Reluctantly, Tom Stone had yielded to Magda's insistence that he stop playing the pauper and spend some of those vast sums that were beginning to pour into his coffers.
Being rich was still something Stoner was coming to terms with. A settlement made all the more difficult by the fact that he was the attorney arguing the case for the other side.
He'd hoped to assuage Magda by his immediate offer to pay all the fines levied on the boys himself, thereby removing the burden from the somewhat-strained purse of the USE embassy.
"That's pocket change!" Madga snapped. "We will not spend our visit to Rome living in a—what did you call it?"
"Youth hostel. Hey, look, it's the way I bummed across Europe back—"
"Just what we need!" She glared at her stepsons and new daughter-in-law. It was still an impressive glare, if not the solar incandescence of the day of her arrival. "I do not need to be reminded that youth is hostile."
"Hos-tel, dear. And the youth in them are really nice kids. Well, there's the occasional jock, but you don't run across too many of them on account of they usually can't find their way anywhere except to the mall, forget foreign travel. But—"
He shook his shaggy mane. " 'Pocket change'? Is that really true? I mean, I know you keep the books, but—"
Magda sniffed. Madga had a world-class sniff. She marched over to her purse and pulled out her wallet. "Books. Who needs books for this? Will they take scudi?"
Stoner sighed. "Innocence lost. I can remember those glorious days when I'd drive for months on a suspended license 'cause I couldn't afford to pay a traffic ticket."
The three Stone boys looked at each other. "Uh, Dad," said Ron. "Is that the same traffic ticket that got you tossed in jail when you got stopped for speeding again? 'Cause, if so, I can remember those glorious days when me and Frank—even Gerry, and he was only ten—had to bust our ass in order—"
"Details, son, details. It was the freedom that mattered."
"Jail is freedom?"
"Freedom of the soul. Who cares about the prison of the body? Besides—"
* * *
He got no further. Antonio Marcoli burst through the door. Somehow he managed it while hobbling on a crutch. Massimo came right behind him.
"Tell me it is not true, faithless daughter!"
Giovanna stared at him, mouth agape. "What's not true, Papa?"
Marcoli marched over to the table where she was sitting next to Frank. Somehow he managed to march while hobbling on a crutch.
"You got married! In the church! The Sistine Chapel, I am told! It is all over the city!"
He flung himself into an empty chair. Yes, somehow managing it while hobbling on a crutch.
Then, placed his head in a despairing hand. With his other hand, he pounded the crutch on the floor. "We are ruined, ruined!"
Giovanna closed her mouth. "You told me to get properly married. Made us promise! And we—ah—kept the promise."
"Well, yes. But that was before. Now we are ruined. Our political principles hopelessly compromised!"
All the Stones and Marcolis were now gaping at him.
"Uh. Before what, Messer Marcoli?" asked Frank.
Marcoli pointed the crutch at Massimo. "Before he explained to me that our political principles do not allow us to recognize the Church's authority in such matters. How can Church and State be separated if the Church—just another set of plunderers of the poor, that's all—is allowed the right to determine such matters?"
Giovanna was almost cross-eyed. "But . . . where else could I get married?"
She drew away from her father, sliding a firm arm around Frank's shoulder. "And he is my husband. So don't think you can tell me not to get married to him. I already did!"
From the look on Frank's face, Tom Stone understood that his son was about to blow up. Would have blown up already, in fact, had he not been basking in the sudden knowledge that Giovanna's ultimate loyalties had just undergone a sea-change.
On one level, of course, Stoner approved of his son's anger. If he didn't stand up to Marcoli he'd be hopeless. He approved even more of that instinctive motion of his new daughter-in-law. Still, he was a man of peace.
"Hey, folks, ease up. Let's all ease up here. Mister Marcoli—"
He rose from the table and leaned over, extending his hand. "We've never met. I'm Tom Stone, Frank's father. We're in-laws. Please to meetcha."
Out of reflex, Marcoli shook his hand. That done, Stoner pressed on with his mission of peace.
"Look, Mr. Marcoli, this is an old problem and one I had to solve, oh, years ago now."
Both Marcoli and Massimo perked up. "There is an American solution?" demanded Massimo.
How to answer that?
"Uh, yeah. Well. One of many. You understand—ah—freedom and liberty also means what you might call variety. So to speak."
"Please. Go on!"
"Right. Well, in our old commune we, ah, had a similar sort of problem. Our own principles clashing, you know, with the uptight notions—well, never mind. The point is, we founded our own church. Except it wasn't really a church. Certainly had no connection to the state. Heh. And whenever one of our couples wanted to get away from the usual—"
Best to skip over that. Communal sex would probably not play well with a man who could burst through a door on a crutch.
"Anyway, wanted to get married, let's say, we'd have our own ceremony."
Massimo pounded his fist softly on the table. "Yes," he said, almost hissing the word. "Of course! Hurl our defiance in the face of the oppressor."
"Uh, yeah. Sorta like that. In our case, it was more like smoke our defiance—"
"Dad!"
"Hey, Frank, take it easy, I'm just—never mind. Anyway, Mister Marcoli, with your approval, we could just do it again right now. Give Frank and your daughter a real wedding." He waved his hand. "They just did that other, in that Sistine Chapel place, to slide one over on the enemy."
He hoped they could also just slide over the issue of consummating the wedding. Seeing as how that had already happened. Many, many, many, many times, judging from the fact that no one had seen Frank and Giovanna outside of their bedroom for more than an hour at a stretch these past couple of days.
Marcoli eyed him. "Si? You can do this?"
"Oh, sure. I was the ordained minister. Still got my card." He began reaching for his wallet. "Universal Church of Life in . . . can't remember the rest of it, that's odd."
"Dad!"
"Ease up, willya? You get my age, your memo
ry starts to go a little. Oh, well. Never mind the card. Just take my word for it, Mister Marcoli. I can marry the kids right here and now and we thumb our nose at the establishment. To do it full bore, of course, we'd need a hookah and some—"
"Dad!"
"Jeez, are you anal today, or what? Okay, forget the hookah. We're not people to get fixated on the trappings, are we?"
"Certainly not," said Massimo firmly. "Superb! The contradiction resolved."
"Yes!" agreed Marcoli, lunging to his feet. Somehow he managed it even without the crutch. A one-legged lunge. "Where do we stand?"
"Uh, well. You don't. Everybody sits in a circle. Cross-legged."
That got two very cross-eyed looks.
"Hey, relax. It won't take long. Since we're passing on the hookah. Most of it is just taken up by saying om."
Really cross-eyed looks.
"It's an acronym." Now he was getting cross-eyed looks from his kids. "I swear, it is. Stands for Omnipersonal Munificence."
"A superb slogan," proclaimed Massimo.
* * *
As everyone moved around to take their places, Frank took the occasion to murmur into his father's ear. "Smooth move, Dad. Thanks."
Tom Stone basked in filial approval. "Your old man's no dummy. Besides, this is a piece of cake. I made LSD in the sixties, remember?"
Epilogue:
July, 1634
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
The mountain's rim
"There might be a scar, Michel, it's impossible to tell yet." Antoine Delerue finished cleaning off his hands. "Won't be a bad one, though, just a short hairline. Not enough to make your description obvious. It's the mark on your hand that'll be problem there."
Ducos scowled down at his right hand. The Buckley creature had ripped and torn it badly, leaving a large and distinctive scar. But, there was nothing to be done about that now. He rose and went to the port rail, Delerue following. The coast of Italy was now barely visible behind them.
Another of Ducos' Huguenot confederates came to join them. Guillaume Locquifier, that was. "They'll never catch us now."
Ducos nodded.
"Too bad about the pope. Most of the project succeeded quite well."
Ducos nodded.
"He's the Antichrist, so I suppose we should not be surprised to have failed the first time." Locquifier scowled. "Curse those American bastards. Do you want—"
Ducos waved his hand impatiently. "Don't be stupid, Guillaume. Do you propose to curse every soldier who stands against us? Divert ourselves at each instant in order to punish lackeys?"
Locquifier subsided. Seeing the sour look still on his face, Delerue shook his head. "Just forget it. If we should happen to encounter them again—not likely, where we're going—we might arrange something. Even then, only if it could be done easily and without distracting us from our great purpose."
Learning that a decision had been made, Locquifier's sullen thoughts of revenge were replaced by interest. Ducos and Delerue were the two recognized leaders of their group, although their roles were quite different. Ducos the man of action, the leader at the fore; Delerue, more in the way of the organizer and the strategist.
"You have decided. May I—?"
"No reason to keep it a secret now," said Ducos. "England."
Locquifier's eyes widened. He'd been expecting Holland. With the Spanish Catholic boot now so heavy on that land, recruitment would be easy. Leaving aside the Huguenots, of whom many had taken refuge in the United Provinces in happier days, the Dutch Counter-Remonstrants should be receptive also.
"You're not thinking clearly, Guillaume," said Delerue, reading his thoughts well enough. "In Holland, we'd spend most of our time in hiding, running from one shelter to the next. In England—" He chuckled, waving a hand toward the cabin at the stern of the little ship. "With the small fortune Michel took from d'Avaux—we only spent a modicum of it on this project—we will be well set up in that land of wretched money-counters. Almost as bad as Venetians, they are."
"True." Guillaume thought about it. "Still . . . although I suppose the Puritans will be receptive."
Ducos grunted. Delerue smiled. "Not the Puritans. English to the core, they are. This is a task of the nation, not simply the faith. Scotland, Guillaume, think in terms of the Scots. France's traditional allies in the islands. We will begin in England, set up with the merchants. But our eyes will remain on the north."
Locquifier made a face. "That will mean Edinburgh and the lowlands. The highlander savages are all papists. They say Edinburgh stinks."
Ducos' face seemed more hatchetlike than ever. "So? The world stinks. Our task, to cleanse it."
A path of gold
After Servien finished his report, Richelieu was silent for a very long time. Hands clasped behind his back, standing in his rich red robes of offices, staring out over the city of Paris through a window in his palace.
That was the cardinal's way of controlling his rage, Servien knew. Simply . . . wait, until he was sure the first surge of murderous fury had passed. Richelieu was the most self-disciplined man Servien had ever encountered. That was not the least of the reasons that the cardinal could gain and hold the loyalty of men such as Servien himself. The work they did for the cardinal was often dangerous, but at least they did not have to worry—as did other men, serving other princes—that they would be punished out of sheer anger. Anger which often—as in this case—resulted from the errors and failures of others.
Eventually the moment passed. Servien could tell from subtleties in the set of the cardinal's shoulders.
Richelieu swiveled his head and gave Servien a dark-eyed stare. Seeing the waiting expression on the face of his intendant, the cardinal snorted.
"Oh, tell me. Where is the fool now? Hiding on his estate?"
Servien nodded. "So my spies place him. In the wine cellar, at last report, working his way through its contents."
Richelieu snorted again. "As if I would not find him there." He took a deep breath. Then, gave his shoulders a little shake, as if to rid himself of the last residues of fury.
"Send d'Avaux a letter. I will sign it after it is drafted. First, tell him—use plain language here, Etienne, I see no reason to pamper the comte's tender sensibilities—that imbecile!—that he has done more damage to France than our worst enemies could have managed. You may be precise. Blackened our name with the Venetians. Even worse—much worse—given that wretched Barberini the diplomatic shelter he needed to carry through this . . . this abomination. 'Cardinal-Protector of the United States of Europe,' no less. A nation with no religion at all. To think that the pope himself would collapse on the matter of an established church!"
Servien nodded. He would enjoy writing that part of the letter. Seigneur le Comte d'Avaux had irritated Servien often enough in the past with his haughty ways.
"Second." The cardinal paused, breathing deeply, and again giving his shoulders that little shake. "Tell him—grudgingly, Servien, make sure the tone is proper; I want that miserable toad frightened out of his wits; if he dies of the terror, he would do me the favor—that we accept his explanation that the deeds were all committed by the rogue actions of his man Ducos. His man, Servien—he chose him and selected him. Rub his snout in it."
"Yes, Your Eminence. That should not be difficult."
"No, I imagine not. And finally, tell him that I do not accept his offer of resignation. He may do amends for his error by serving France in other ways. Ways which are more suitable for his talents."
The cardinal eyed Servien again. "Do you perhaps have a recommendation? Don't feign the innocent, Etienne. You have that little smirk on your face."
The intendant cleared his throat. "Well, Your Eminence, as it happens, just two weeks ago we received another letter from Brest. The fishermen have fallen to quarre
ling again."
Richelieu nodded. "Adjudicator between quarreling Breton fishermen. Delightful. And the weather in Bretagne is miserable in the winter. Delightful."
"Don't much care for the wine of the region, either, Your Eminence. Matter of my personal taste, of course."
"Everyone's taste, I think. Certainly that of a puffed-up comte who fancies himself a connoisseur. Delightful. See that it is done."
"Yes, Your Eminence." Servien hesitated. Unusually, he was quite at a loss to anticipate how Richelieu would handle the next matter. It could be . . . anything.
"And Mazarini, Your Eminence?"
"Ah, yes. Mazarini." Richelieu shook his head. To Servien's surprise, the gesture seemed an admiring one.
"What a brilliant coup. I do not believe any man in Europe could have done better."
"Your Eminence?"
Richelieu issued a little laugh. "What, Etienne? Were you expecting me to send out assassins?"
As a matter of fact, that had been Servien's guess as to the cardinal's most likely reaction.
"He—ah—would seem to have betrayed us, Your Eminence. There is no doubt at all that he was instrumental in concealing the complicity of the Americans in the affair." Servien felt himself growing a bit angry, now. "I do not believe for a moment that ridiculous 'finding' of his, that the sons of the USE's ambassador were simply attempting to foil a plot of which they had only learned at the last minute."
Richelieu's next laugh was more cheerful. "It is threadbare, is it not? Still, Servien, the same report also stipulated—quite firmly—that the actions of Ducos were those of a rogue, not an agent of France. A religious fanatic—and a Protestant, at that. Which, I will remind you, is all that kept the damage to France from being far worse than it was. If young Mazarini protected the Americans, he extended as much protection to us as he could, under the circumstances."
The cardinal was intent, now, very intent. Servien understood that this was a matter to which Richelieu had spent some time applying his formidable intellect. "What else could he have done, Etienne? Think. He had to single out Ducos as the only villain in the piece, to cauterize the damage. You think he should have tried to place the blame on those American youngsters? The oldest of them is but nineteen, and when the actual attempt was made—all the witnesses agreed to this—he and his brothers took great personal risks to protect the pope. To be sure, Mazarini could have exposed their earlier folly and recklessness. But folly and recklessness are not malevolence—and trust Italians before all other people to understand the difference." He barked a sarcastic little laugh. "Since they have practiced both reckless folly and malevolence for centuries. It is no accident, you know, that Italian is the language that produced the term commedia dell'arte as well as vendetta."