by Eric Flint
Janos shrugged. “I believe he does. But it doesn’t really matter whether he does or not. A man with principles does not choose his course of action based on the likely reward or punishment.”
“You will lose most of your property—your income with it—as soon as the treaty is finalized.” Wallenstein glanced at Noelle for a moment. “And you are soon to be married again, with a family to care for.”
Noelle usually spoke little at these sessions with Wallenstein. Today, she hadn’t spoken at all. But now, she did.
“Janos’ income will be quite sufficient,” she said firmly. “You perhaps forget, Your Majesty”—she wasn’t about to refer to Wallenstein any other way—“that I was born and raised a commoner in a small town. I am accustomed to getting by—getting by quite well, in fact—on fairly limited means.”
Wallenstein now subjected Noelle to the same intent study. She reminded herself that it never paid to underestimate this man. Yes, he had most of the unthinking prejudices and biases of his time and place. But he was also extraordinarily intelligent and able to set aside those attitudes when he made the effort.
“You are looking at the matter too narrowly,” he said. “Yours will probably not be a morganatic marriage, you know. Ferdinand hasn’t ruled on the question yet, but my guess is that he will rule the way Janos has asked him to. If he does, that means you will have responsibilities you would not have if you were simply Janos Drugeth’s spouse.”
Noelle was uncomfortably aware of that already. She’d urged Janos not to make an issue of it, but he’d gotten stubborn and pressed his case upon the emperor. That put Ferdinand in something of an awkward position, because Austria-Hungary had still not clarified the legal position of up-timers in terms of the empire’s class structure. The device of referring to them as von Up-time had become a fairly widespread custom, but was still not a matter of settled law.
“There is a simple solution to all of this,” Wallenstein said abruptly. “Your wedding will happen after the treaty is signed and the Slovakian portion of Royal Hungary is transferred from Austria-Hungary to Bohemia. During that period, I will ennoble Noelle as the countess of Homonna.” He waved his hand. “For services rendered to the crown of Bohemia, which is true enough. I can do that because I’m the king of Bohemia and if anyone objects they will regret it.”
For just that moment—cold, cold moment—Noelle got a glimpse of the man who had ordered the Croat raid on Grantville and its high school.
“There, Janos,” Wallenstein went on. “All problems are solved. Ferdinand is spared the need of making a final ruling on the class status of up-timers—not for long, I suspect, but that’s his headache—and you get your family’s lands back but with the sufficient—what’s that handy American expression?”
“Cover,” Noelle supplied. “Or fig leaf.”
“Yes, that. With the cover that the lands are really your bride’s, not yours, so you can evade the necessity of swearing allegiance to me.”
He gave Noelle a smile that had a sly edge to it. “Of course, she will have to do so.”
If he’d thought to catch her off guard, the attempt failed. Noelle had figured that part out already.
She’d have to hold her nose, figuratively speaking. But the Roths had already sworn allegiance to Wallenstein, and so far as she could tell neither one of them had started growing horns or hooves so she could probably get away with too.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. Her own smile was very sweet. Dripping with honey. Well, saccharine.
Chapter 34
Deggendorf, Bavaria
At the confluence of the Danube and Isar rivers
When Major Tom Simpson returned to the headquarters he’d set up in one of the smaller taverns of Deggendorf, he was surprised to see Ursula Gerisch waiting for him. Surprised—and not pleased. At the moment, his attitude toward religion in general was not as genial and relaxed as it usually was. Having to keep the peace between the more ardent CoC members in his unit and the SoTF National Guard company which Heinrich Schmidt had detached to aid him in the salvage work and Deggendorf’s Catholic population was trying his patience.
The problem was the so-called “Deggendorfer Gnad.” It was one of the more popular pilgrimages in the Catholic areas of Central Europe, and drew somewhere around forty thousand people to the town every year.
So far, so good. Unfortunately, the event that had initiated this pilgrimage had not been the sort of thing—apparitions of the Virgin Mary, usually—that had begun the pilgrimages at Santiago de Compostela, Altötting, Medugorje and Czestochowa, and would do the same at Fatimah and Lourdes in later centuries.
No, the Deggendorfer Gnad had begun as a result of a pogrom against the city’s Jews two hundred years earlier. The real cause of the massacre had almost certainly been the high debts the town’s residents owed some Jewish moneylenders. But it didn’t take long before the bloody deed was disguised by a very different legend that turned the slaughter into an act of piety.
Tom had seen the inscription in Deggendorf’s basilica himself, after some irate soldiers had brought the matter to his attention:
In the year of the Lord 1337, on the day after Michaelmas, the Jews were slain. They had set fire to the town. Then the body of God was found. This was seen by women and men and the building of the house of God was begun.
The bit about “finding the body of God” was obviously a reference to the charge of host desecration, which was almost as popular as blood libel as a way to whip up Christian fanatics and bigots. Too many years had gone by to determine exactly what had happened, but it didn’t really matter.
On the one hand, the Bavarian establishment—secular and religious alike—had come down squarely in support of the pilgrimage. That had been true going back to Heinrich XIV, the duke of Bavaria at the time, who had promptly forgiven the citizens and allowed them to keep the loot they’d plundered from the city’s Jews. And it was still true: one of the strongest current supporters of the Deggendorfer Gnad was none other than Duke Maximilian’s younger brother Albrecht, whom Tom knew Mike Stearns wanted to make the new duke of Bavaria if Maximilian could be forced to abdicate.
On the other hand, the army of the USE—the National Guard of the State of Thuringia-Franconia wasn’t much different, in this respect—was heavily CoC in its composition and attitudes. Those were the soldiers who were now ruling the roost in Deggendorf—everywhere in northern Bavaria—and a fair number of them had joined the army right after participating in the so-called Kristallnacht slaughter of anti-Semites all over the Germanies after the Dreeson Incident.
And they were perfectly willing to visit the same treatment upon the be-damned foul medieval bootlicking lackeys who infested Deggendorf.
Just what Tom needed. Holding back a pogrom of pogrom-celebrants with one hand while he tried to raise two great heavy monster naval rifles from a river bed where (cough cough) an unfortunate accident had sent them plunging.
For that reason, the sight of Ursula Gerisch sitting quietly at a table in the corner of the tavern did not lift his spirits. What did this religious fanatic want?
Fine, he was over-stating the matter. Excessively enthusiastic convert to his own church, how’s that? There was probably something in Episcopal canon law that forbade outright fanaticism.
There was no point in stalling, though. Ursula Gerisch was nothing if not persistent. So he marched over, looked down at her—loomed over her forbiddingly, being honest about it—and said sternly: “What do you need, Ursula?”
The look the young woman gave him was odd. It seemed to be part-reproachful and part-beseechful. But mostly, it seemed hopeful.
“Is it true, what I read?” she asked. “In one of the pamphlets that Frau Riddle sent me.”
Veleda Riddle was sending her pamphlets, too? Just what the world needed. A well-informed fanatic. Excuse me, excessively enthusiastic convert to my own church.
Ursula hurried on. “The church—your church—now my church,
too—will ordain women as priests. Is this true? In one of the pamphlets, there are pictures of women priests. I saw them with my own eyes.”
For a brief moment, Tom had an image of himself—his huge hands, rather—throttling the life out of a white-haired old woman.
The image was fleeting; gone before even one second had elapsed. He felt a moment’s guilt, even—although that didn’t last much longer.
There was no evading those upward-looking, imploring eyes.
He sighed, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table across from her. Then, slowly and carefully, removed his hat and set it gently on the table.
“Yes, Ursula, it’s true. The Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America, of which”—God help me, but he didn’t say it out loud—“I am a bishop, started ordaining women as priests back in…”
He couldn’t remember the exact date. ’76? ’77? Somewhere in the mid-70s.
That would be the mid-nineteen hundred seventies. Most assuredly not the mid-sixteen hundred seventies—which were still forty years off in the here and now.
Which meant a quarter of a millennium off, in whatever you called “real cultural time.”
“About thirty years ago,” he said. “That was up-time, you understand.”
Ursula nodded. “Yes. I do not envy you, Bishop Simpson. Having to make a ruling as to how up-time canon law applies to us.” She gave him a gleaming smile. “But I am sure you will come to the correct decision.”
She rose and curtsied. “I must be off. I have to get back as soon as possible.”
“Get back…”
“To Dresden. I told Gretchen I would bring her the news as soon as I spoke to you.”
And off she went.
The tavern-keeper came up. “Would you like a stein of beer, Major?”
Tom didn’t normally drink while he was on duty; which, technically, he still was until… He pulled out his pocket watch. Two more hours.
Screw it. “Yes, please.”
The tavern-keeper went to fetch it.
Tom weighed the likely results if he did…
Archbishop Laud would probably have a stroke.
The Anglican Communion would be stillborn in this universe.
Then he weighed the likely results if he didn’t…
Would Gretchen Richter lead a schism and separate the Protestant Episcopal Church of the Province of Saxony from the Protestant Episcopal Church of the United States of Europe?
Does a she-bear shit in the woods?
“Well, fuck me,” he said.
Dresden, capital of Saxony
“This is utterly ridiculous! Do you hear me, Krenz? Ridiculous!”
But Eric stood his ground. Didn’t even flinch. “It is not ridiculous, Gretchen. I’ve been in a battle. More than once! You haven’t. On a battlefield, you need to wear armor. It’s not enough to just have a helmet.”
Gretchen glared at him. “Stop making things up. I’ve seen the uniforms you wear. The most you ever have is a buff coat.”
“Well, of course. We were just volley gunners. Or later, when I got promoted, I was an infantry officer.” He made a motion with his upper body as if he were about to dive. “You need to be able to get down on the ground quickly. But you—you are the commander in chief. You will need to be up on a horse. Way up where the enemy can see you—and they’ll be shooting at you, don’t think they won’t.”
He turned to the two Poles standing near, both of whom were grinning.
“You tell her.”
Jozef Wojtowicz managed to get the grin off his face before Gretchen could transfer the glare onto him.
“He’s basically right, Gretchen,” said Jozef. “Unless you plan to command from all the way in the rear.”
“Which is not wrong, you know,” added Lukasz. “Grand Hetman Koniecpolski doesn’t lead charges himself. He hasn’t for many years.”
“I’m not planning to lead any cavalry charges either,” said Gretchen, almost hissing the words. She jerked a thumb in the direction of Lovrenc Bravnicar. “He’ll be the one doing that.”
Jozef glanced at Eric Krenz. Seeing the look of appeal in the young officer’s face, he sighed and ran fingers through his hair. “Gretchen, you’re talking as if you were going to be commanding a real army. But you aren’t. You’re going to be trying to herd—well, not cats, no. But you’re going to be trying to get groups of men who have very different experiences and customs, and have never fought together, to act as if they were an army. Which they are not. Not yet, anyway.”
“That means you have to be seen,” said Lukasz. “Really seen. Not just glimpsed now and then but seen by everybody and seen all the time. And there’s no way to do that on a battlefield without the enemy being able to see you as well. They will try to kill you.”
“And that’s where the armor comes in,” said Krenz hurriedly. “You won’t be close to them, Gretchen. They’ll be shooting at you from far away. Far enough that good armor will stop even a bullet. Or shrapnel from an artillery shell that lands nearby.”
Gretchen gave Krenz a hard look for a few seconds. Then, transferred the look to the two Poles. And then, softening a bit—just a bit—her eyes went to Tata.
“What do you think?”
“I think you should wear the armor,” came the immediate response.
Gretchen shifted her gaze to look at the assembled pieces that, properly fitted and shaped, would eventually form a suit of armor that would fit her.
“I will feel ridiculous,” she predicted. “Ridiculous.”
“That’s all right,” said Tata. “Only still alive people feel ridiculous.”
The proverbial gleam came to Gretchen’s eyes. She gave the two Poles a sudden grin.
“You’re making me nervous, Gretchen,” said Jozef.
“Me too,” agreed Lukasz.
“If I’m to be a commander who has to appear in front of all on the field of battle, then surely I need bodyguards. Gustav Adolf has bodyguards, doesn’t he? So! Who better to serve as my bodyguards than two hussars? In full armor.”
She turned the gleaming gaze onto the armorer in whose shop this was all taking place. “Can you make hussar armor?”
He frowned. “Yes, I suppose. But it’s very expensive. Is Saxony going to pay for that along with your own armor?”
“No, I’ll pay for it myself. I’ll sell some stock. I have lots of stock.” She actually had no idea how to turn stock into liquid cash, but she’d send a telegram to David Bartley. He’d do it for her.
“Gretchen!” protested Lukasz. “We can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because—because—” He looked to Wojtowicz for help.
“It will look bad, Gretchen.” Jozef indicated himself and Lukasz with a quick flick of his thumb and forefinger. “We’re Poles. We can’t be seen fighting on your side against… Well, technically, Holk’s army is in the service of Poland.”
“That’s a lie and you know it. And the solution to the problem is obvious. Fly a Polish battle flag from your lances.” She looked back at the armorer. “You do have lances, don’t you?”
“I can make some,” the armorer replied. He gave the two Poles a dubious look. “But they won’t be those peculiar lightweight Polish things. They’ll be real lances. German-style lances.”
“Lances are lances,” Gretchen proclaimed, never having held one in her life. “Big long spears. That’ll do well enough to hold a banner. And these two probably won’t have to do any fighting anyway because”—her eyes truly were gleaming—“my armored awesomeness will surely cause the enemy to flee as soon as they lay eyes on me. And my two Polish hussars.”
Lukasz and Jozef looked at each other. Then, Jozef shrugged. “I suppose if we ever get put on trial before the Sejm we could claim we were just passing by and saw what we mistook as an allied army fighting a horde of what looked like unregistered Cossacks…”
Lukasz wiped his face with a large hand. “Stop, Jozef. Just stop.”
“Telegram for you, Mrs. Riddle.” The teenager standing on her porch handed Veleda a piece of paper that had been folded over twice and sealed with a blob of wax. The blob had then been stamped with the design of the telegraph company, a particularly ornate symbol because the lettering was in Fraktur.
“Thank you.” Frowning—who would be sending her a telegram from—she checked the return address—someplace called Deggendorf? She had no idea where that was.
She opened the telegram and read it. By the time she finished, which was only a few seconds because it was not a long message, the frown had vanished. Replaced by very wide eyes and a startled look.
“Oh, my,” she said. Then, hurried inside to the telephone.
“Vanessa? Veleda here. We need to have a church meeting. Yes, the whole church. Except for Father Barneby. I’ll explain why at the meeting.”
* * *
“This is insane!” said Christie Kemp. “Utterly insane—and now I understand why you didn’t want the Reverend to be here, Veleda. He’d have had a fit.”
“Why is it insane?” countered Marshall Kitt. “We had female priests up-time. St. Thomas á Becket Church in Morgantown had one. She’d been there for—” He looked at his wife Vanessa. “How long was—”
“That was up-time!” Christie half-shouted. She threw up her hands for emphasis. “Up-time! In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re down-time now. Nobody has female clergy here and now. You hear me? Nobody! Not even the Unitarians in Transylvania.”
Veleda eyed her skeptically. “How do you know anything at all about a church in Transylvania?”
Christie waved the objection aside. “I don’t need to know the specifics. It’s obvious. If we Episcopalians try to ordain a woman priest we’ll be the laughingstock of the continent—if we’re lucky!”
Marshall Kitt leaned back in his armchair and gave Kemp a hard look. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight, Christie. If any woman is going to get ordained in the Episcopal church it’ll be this Ursula Gerisch woman. And she’ll get ordained in Dresden because she’ll presumably have the support of Gretchen Richter. That would be the same Gretchen Richter who held off the Spanish army at Amsterdam and Báner’s army at Dresden, and is now likely to get elected as the chancellor of Saxony. So I really don’t think it’s too likely that anything worse than being laughed at will happen to us—and ask me if I give a good God-damn what some benighted backward jackass thinks of me and my faith.”