Eric Flint's Blog, page 190

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 60

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 60

Albert died in 1621, ten years before the Ring of Fire. Isabella then joined a religious lay order but continued to rule the Spanish Netherlands — the area that the up-timers would think of as Belgium and Luxemburg — until her nephew the Cardinal-Infante Fernando reunified the Netherlands during the Baltic War, whereupon she delegated her power to him.

Her formal power, that is to say. Nobody had any doubt at all that Isabella continued to be a major player in the continent’s power struggles.

She was a few months shy of seventy years old when Rita Simpson met her in Brussels. In one of the many, many, many examples of the so-called Butterfly Effect, she had now lived three years longer than she would have in the universe which sent Grantville through the Ring of Fire. And, despite her constant declarations of infirmity and predictions of her imminent demise, seemed as much a force of nature as ever.

****

Rita never had a clear memory of what she and Isabella talked about in that first meeting — first audience, rather. The archduchess said nothing at all concerning the matter that had brought Rita and her companions to the Netherlands, or anything else that could be considered business. The occasion was purely personal and informal, insofar as the term “informal” ever applied in the presence of Isabella. Even with members of her immediate family, the archduchess maintained a certain reserve — a guardedness, if you will, which was the product of a lifetime spent both watching and participating in the game of empire.

Rita spoke no blasphemies and used no terms not blessed by Good Society. And for a wonder, enjoyed herself.

****

Rita’s verdict on the encounter, as told to Bonnie and Heinz right afterward, was simple and quite West Virginian.

“I liked her a lot. She’s a nice old lady. Not gathering any cobwebs, though, I’ll tell you that.”

****

Isabella’s verdict on the encounter, as told to King Fernando and Queen Maria Anna right afterward, was simple on the surface but not below, and quite what you’d expect from a Spanish infanta whose daddy had ruled in five continents.

“She’ll do. She’s not her brother, of course. Thank God. But she’ll do.”

Dresden, capital of Saxony

By the time Gretchen finished probing Jozef and Lukasz to see what they might have left out of their report, inadvertently or otherwise, she and they were sitting at the table rather than standing. Several other people had joined them there as well: Tata, Eric Krenz, the CoC leader Joachim Kappel, and the Vogtlander Wilhelm Kuefer.

She leaned back in her chair, with both hands planted on the edge of the heavy table, and gave the two Poles a long, flat-eyed, considering look.

“All right,” she said abruptly. “You need to tell me what you are willing to do for Saxony” — there was a slight stress on Saxony — “and what you are not willing to do. Before you begin, I will make clear that I do not expect you — either of you, not just Lukasz Opalinski — to do anything that could be considered opposed to Grand Hetman Koniecpolski.”

“Anything opposed to Poland,” Jozef immediately countered.

“That’s too broad,” said Gretchen. “Pissing outdoors could be considered opposed to Poland because the wind might blow foreign piss onto sacred Polish soil.”

She leaned forward, still with her hands planted on the table. “What do you really care about King Wladyslaw, Jozef? Or that pack of squabbling szlachta who’ve made the Sejm a byword for incompetence and selfishness?”

Neither Jozef nor Lukasz said anything, but they both had mulish expressions on their faces.

Gretchen shook her head. “And they say we Germans are pig-headed. Fine. I will narrow this down still further. What I want you to do is go back into Poland and spy for Saxony” — again, she emphasized that name — “with particular regard for seeing if Holk has any plans to extend his depredations into my province.”

My province. Gretchen was guessing, but she thought that proprietary term used in such a vaguely monarchical manner might help reassure the two Poles. The Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania was what Americans would call “an odd duck.” It was partly a monarchy and partly an aristocratic oligarchy, with the royal side providing the form of the realm and the oligarchy its real content. But you could never forget what made Poland so unusual, politically — its aristocracy was a far larger percentage of the population than in any other European country. One in ten Poles could — and did, most surely — call themselves szlachta. Even if, as was very often true, they were not significantly richer nor in possession of more land than their commoner neighbors.

Coupled to the peculiar privilege of Polish aristocracy called the liberum veto, which allowed any member of the Sejm to single-handedly nullify any proposed legislation, the end result was a nation whose real affairs were almost entirely managed by way of informal and unofficial channels. People had fierce loyalties to each other, but that abstract entity known as the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth got little of it, for all the sentimentality that was so common in Polish politics.

She was pretty sure that most of Lukasz and Jozef’s real attachments were to the person of Grand Hetman Koniecpolski — with whom Gretchen had no quarrel. The war that Gustav Adolf had started against Poland was his war, as far as she was concerned. One Swedish Vasa butting heads with a Polish member of the same family for reasons that meant little or nothing to Germany’s common folk.

Let them play their stupid royal games up there by the Baltic. Gretchen’s concern was with Saxony.

Lukasz and Jozef looked at each other.

“Okay,” said Jozef, after a few seconds. “But only as it concerns Saxony and Holk!”

He raised his forefinger in admonishment. Lukasz’s came up to join it. “Only as it concerns Saxony and Holk!” he echoed.

****

Afterward, when they had left the Rezidenzschloss and the two Poles were alone, Jozef shook his head. “That was very rash, what you did. Telling her who you really were.”

Lukasz shrugged. “She’d already figured out we were lying about something. Aren’t you the one, o great spymaster, who keeps telling me that the best way to cover up a big lie is to confess to a small one?”

Jozef frowned. It was true that he had said that — yes, often — but…

“What really matters here is not my true identity, Jozef,” Lukasz continued. “It’s yours. It’s one thing for Gretchen Richter and her comrades to know that I’m a hussar in service to the Grand Hetman. It’s another thing entirely for them to discover that you’re his nephew and his spymaster in the USE.”

“Well. True.”

****

“We can’t trust them!” Eric protested. “Especially now that we know Jozef was lying to us all along.”

Gretchen studied him for a few seconds, her expression impassive. Then she shook her head. “What does trust have to do with this?”

Eric stared at her, then at Tata. Then, shook his own head. “Sometimes, Gretchen, you’re a little scary.”

“You just noticed?” said Tata.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 59

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 59

“So why the fuck are we all the way down here in Brussels?” she demanded.

That being a purely rhetorical question, Rita moved right on to providing the answer without giving either Bonnie or Heinz so much as a second’s pause in which to insert a response. “I’ll tell you why. Because in the seventeenth fucking century — no offense, Heinz; you’re okay but your time period sucks — you can’t chew gum without getting His Royal Uppitiness to sign off on it.”

She paused for a breath of air, her hands planted on hips, and surveyed the train they’d arrived in. It consisted of a very primitive more-or-less open air steam locomotive hauling five equally primitive if not quite as open air coaches, all of it traveling on a single heavy wooden rail with — in some places; not others — thin iron plates attached to the top of the rail to cut down on wear and tear. The locomotive and all the coaches had outrigger wheels which ran on the side of the road to maintain balance. They reminded Rita of nothing so much as the wheels on Conestoga wagons she’d seen — once in a museum; a jillion times on TV.

Heinz had told them that the design was a variation of the nineteenth century Ewing system that had been briefly depicted in one of the books in Grantville. It moved very slowly, not more than ten miles an hour and usually less. But even at that speed, if you keep it up around the clock, a train can travel quite a ways. The distance from Amsterdam to Brussels was less than one hundred and fifty miles. Theoretically, they could have made it less than a day.

In the real world, it had taken them a little more than two days. The steam engine had had problems. One of the outrigger wheels had broken, almost derailing that coach — not theirs, thankfully. At several places along the way the track had gone askew. Still, it had been kind of interesting and it beat riding horses or (still worse) being hauled in carriages.

They hadn’t intended to make the trip on a train at all. The original plan had been to use one of the hot air dirigibles built by the same consortium that was building the hydrogen one. But there were only two of the airships, one of which was in Copenhagen, and the one that was available had promptly suffered engine failure — and of a fairly catastrophic sort. They’d managed to get the problem under control before the boiler exploded, but two of the crew had been hurt and the engine was pretty much a complete write-off.

They could have waited for the airship in Copenhagen to return, but that would have taken a few days and in any event none of them were too keen on riding through the air in a small basket right after seeing how another basket had just gotten partially parboiled.

There was this to be said for the seventeenth century. It made you reassess the way you calculated risks. Riding halfway across the Netherlands on a dinky one-rail train that was kept from falling over by a wooden wheel sounded just peachy.

“Oh, quit crabbing, Rita,” said Bonnie. “You’re just cranky because you’re nervous.”

“Well, yeah. No kidding. The last time I got dragooned into being Ms. Well-Connected Ambassadress, I got pitched into one of the world’s most famous prisons. They kept me there for a whole year. I wonder what’s waiting for us here in the Netherlands. That stands for ‘Low Countries,’ you know. They say it’s on account of the elevation but you gotta wonder a little. Dungeons have a low elevation too. ”

“Speaking of ambassadors,” said Heinz, “here comes your greeting party.”

Rita looked in the direction he was indicating. “Jesus H. Christ,” she said. Rita had little truck with down-time sensibilities on the subject of blasphemy. “That mob needs a damn train their own selves.”

****

A mob they may have been, but they were a courteous one — excessively so, in Rita’s opinion, although she didn’t make any objection. She didn’t, for two reasons. First, because despite her frequent complaints and protests, she understood that her job on this mission was to be a di-plo-mat, the dictionary definition of which included: “a person who is tactful and skillful in managing delicate situations, handling people, etc.” Second, because it is hard to be rude to people who are being nice to you. A few people can manage it — more than a few, if they have the benefit of New York or Paris training — but most can’t. Rita was in the latter category. There were some disadvantages to being brought up in a place like West Virginia.

When she — she alone, Bonnie and Böcler having been deftly peeled away by courtiers — was brought into the presence of Archduchess Isabella, Rita found herself being quite disarmed. Most people can manage to be polite, with a little effort. The archduchess, when she was inclined to do so — which was not always, by any means — could turn it into an art form.

She was one of the Grand Old Ladies of the European aristocracy, as grand as it can get short of being an outright queen — and for most of her life, Isabella had actually wielded more real power than all but a handful of queens in the continent’s history.

She was known as Isabella Clara Eugenia of Austria, although she’d been born in Segovia and was an infanta of Spain. Her father had been King Philip II — yes, that Philip II, the one who launched the Armada against England and whose reign was considered the heyday of Spanish power. His empire had included territories on five of the seven continents, lacking only Australia and Antarctica, and the Philippine Islands had been named after him. The reference to an empire upon which the sun never sets, which most Americans attributed to the English empire of a later day, was originally coined to refer to Philip’s.

Isabella’s mother had been no slouch in the royalty department herself. She was Elizabeth of Valois, the daughter of Henry II of France and Catherine de’ Medici. Isabella’s other two grandparents had been Emperor Charles V and Infanta Isabella of Portugal, on her father’s side.

While still in her twenties, Isabella Clara Eugenia had been a contender for the throne of France, being advanced for that position by the Catholic party that controlled the Parlement de Paris. In the end a different contender seized the throne, the Protestant Henry III of Navarre, who converted to Catholicism after supposedly making the famous quip “Paris is well worth a mass” and became Henry IV of France, the founder of the Bourbon dynasty.

As if in compensation — it was really just another move in the constant strife of dynasties — Isabella was given in marriage to her cousin, Archduke Albert of Austria. The representatives of the two Habsburg branches were given the Netherlands over which they would rule jointly. She was thirty-three years old at the time.

The marriage was a happy one, except for the fact that all three of their offspring had died in childhood. Their joint rule inaugurated a period of relative peace and prosperity in the southern Netherlands, and it was during that period that the great age of Flemish art began, with their patronage of such figures as Peter Paul Rubens and Pieter Brueghel the Younger.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 58

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 58

Chapter 28

Dresden, capital of Saxony

Gretchen Richter looked from Jozef Wojtowicz to the two small children at his side — the girl was holding on to his leg with both hands — from there to the large fellow named Lukasz Kijek who had accompanied him back to Dresden, back to Jozef, to the children again and back to Jozef.

“I am provisionally willing to accept the idea that you rescued these children from their destroyed village even though I have never previously gotten any sense that you cared for children at all.” She lifted her shoulders in a minimalist sort of shrug. “But I long ago learned that most people have unseen depths so it is possible. I am also willing to accept — very provisionally — that you just happened to run into your old friend Lukasz Kijek wandering around in Breslau even though your explanation as to the reason for his being there is ridiculous.”

She now shifted her scrutiny to the Kijek fellow. “If he is a grain merchant then I am the queen of Sheba. Within three seconds of entering this room he had positioned everyone in his mind, especially the three men with weapons. So had you, but you told me you’d been trained as a hussar. He is some sort of soldier, and one with a lot more experience than you’d expect of such a young man.”

She now looked back at Jozef. “I don’t mind that you’re lying to me since it has been clear for some time that there are things you’re being secretive about. Up to a point, I don’t mind people hiding things from me. Whether or not we have now reached that point is what needs to be determined.”

The boy standing next to Jozef, who’d been fidgeting all the while she’d been talking, erupted in protest.

“You shouldn’t call Uncle Jozef a liar! It’s not right! And it’s true what he said! He found us after the soldiers killed everyone in our village! And then when four of them tried to attack us he killed them all!”

Jozef rubbed his hand over his face.

“Killed four of them, did he? All by himself. Why am I not surprised?” She shifted her eyes back to Lukasz. “And you, grain merchant. How many men have you killed in the course of plying your peaceful trade? And please spare me tales of fighting off bandits. Bandits do not rob grain boats.”

By now, Eric Krenz and both guards standing at the door were on full alert. Gretchen made a little waving motion, indicating they should stand down. “Everyone relax. I am not making any accusations, I just dislike being taken for a fool. What I really want to discuss with you, Jozef, is the report you brought back. If we subtract all the business involving the tall blond cold-eyed fellow with the big shoulders and the still posture, how much of what you told me is true?”

To her surprise, the big “grain merchant” answered the question. It was the first time he’d spoken since he’d come into her presence.

“All of it’s true,” he said. He spoke Low German, not Amideutsch, and his accent was something of a cross between Prussian and Polish. “Except for the part about me, which you’re right about. I’m not a grain merchant and never have been. I’m a hussar.”

“Why did you lie, then?”

“I wasn’t sure of my reception here if you knew who I really was.”

“There is only one way to find out, isn’t there?” She now scowled at Krenz and the two guards, who’d started to edge closer again. “I said, relax. They’re not going to attack me — and even if they did, so what?”

She slapped the table that she’d been sitting behind when the two Poles came into the room. It was big, heavy — and interposed between her and them. “By the time they could get around this or move it aside, I’ll have shot them both dead.”

The Lukasz fellow gave her an intent, quite interested look. “With what?”

“This.” She brushed her vest aside, exposing the 9 mm pistol in its shoulder holster.

“That’s a very impressive-looking gun. An up-time model, if I am not mistaken.” He actually did sound very impressed. “But your tactics are flawed. I wouldn’t try to move around the table or push it aside, I’d just ram it straight into you. Pin you against the wall with it. Crush you, probably. I’m very strong; even stronger than Jozef.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you underestimate my powers of concentration. I’d still empty this whole clip into you and Jozef even if you broke my ribcage. I wouldn’t miss many shots, either. Maybe not any. I’ve become very good with this pistol.”

The evenness of her tone seemed to impress him even more.

“Be afraid,” she heard Wojtowicz mutter. “Be very afraid.”

His friend Lukasz’s lips twitched. “I’m beginning to understand why you said that.”

“Enough of this,” said Gretchen. “Tell me who you really are and we’ll just have to see what happens.”

“I’m Lukasz Opalinski — yes, that’s the Opalinski family — and a hussar in the service of Grand Hetman Stanislaw Koniecpolski.”

Wojtowicz rolled his eyes. “We’re fucked.”

“That makes you the sworn enemy of the emperor of the United States of Europe, Gustav II Adolf,” said Gretchen. “I would have you arrested even though I strongly disagree with the emperor’s policy toward Poland except that you’re also the brother of Krzysztof Opalinski, who is an associate of the highly respected Red Sybolt –”

Eric Krenz spluttered a little laugh. “Highly respected by whom?”

Gretchen gave him a cold eye. “By me, for one — and every right-thinking member of the Committees of Correspondence.” She brought the same cold eye to bear on Opalinski. “Both of whom are known to be agitating for democracy in Poland, which means they are more likely to be enemies of King Wladyslaw than the USE, which in turn means that your position here is complicated and hasty action would therefore be a mistake. So.”

She pointed to some chairs lined up against the wall facing the room’s windows. “Pull up some chairs. We need to talk.”

As they did so, she looked at the two guards by the door. “I think it would be awkward to have Administrator Wettin present at this discussion. And it would only distress him. So one of you step out in the corridor and let me know if you see Ernst coming this way.”

Brussels, capital of the Netherlands

Amsterdam was a bust, for all the reasons they’d made Rita come on this stupid trip which was still stupid even if they’d been proven right.

“It’s fucking ridiculous,” she grumbled, as they got off the train. “They’re building the airship in Holland, right? At Hoorn, north of Amsterdam. All the artisans, all the equipment — the money guys, you name it” — she waved her free hand toward the north while she wrestled her valise off the rail car, stubbornly ignoring Heinz Böcler’s offer to help — “they’re all up there.”

She lowered the valise to the ground. It might be better to say, got it down with a more-or-less controlled drop. The thing was down-time made, which meant it was very sturdy but not what you’d call lightweight.

 

Literary Awards Are Not Competitions

The Dragon Award was launched this year at the 2016 DragonCon convention in Atlanta that took place over Labor Day weekend. It will be held every year hereafter.

The award was given out in these categories:

Best Science Fiction Novel
Best Fantasy Novel
Best Young Adult/Middle Grade Novel
Best Military Science Fiction or Fantasy Novel
Best Alternate History Novel
Best Apocalyptic Novel
Best Horror Novel
Best Comic Book
Best Graphic Novel
Best Science Fiction or Fantasy TV Series
Best Science Fiction or Fantasy Movie
Best Science Fiction or Fantasy PC/Console Game
Best Science Fiction or Fantasy Mobile Game
Best Science Fiction of Fantasy Board Game
Best Science Fiction or Fantasy Miniatures/Collectible Card/Role Playing Game

As will be obvious to anyone familiar with the existing major awards in science fiction and fantasy, there are two features of the Dragon Award which are quite different:

First, in the literary categories, no awards are given for short fiction. Only novels are eligible to be nominated.

Second, much greater weight is given to non-literary forms of science fiction and fantasy. Of the fifteen awards presented, only seven of the awards—slightly less than half—are given to traditional literary forms. Two are given out for illustrated stories (comics and graphic novels), two are given out for dramatic presentations (TV series and movies), and four are given out in different gaming categories.

There are a number of reasons for these differences, which I will discuss in this ongoing blog. For the moment, though, I just want to touch on what is perhaps the most basic point to be made:

The Dragon Award was not set up to compete with any of the existing awards. We didn’t launch this new award because we were dissatisfied or disgruntled with the existing awards, such as the Hugo or the Nebula or the World Fantasy Award.

Our attitude stems from a recognition of something that is all too often misunderstood about literary awards. And that is the notion that a literary (or any type of artistic) award in some way or another ratifies a competition. To put it another way, that an award establishes which story or author (or piece of art or artist, or song or singer) “won the competition” in the period of eligibility. According to this notion, what authors and other artists do is in some way analogous to what athletes do when they engage in sports competitions. And, thus, receiving a Hugo or a Nebula or a Dragon or any other award is equivalent to standing on a platform at the Olympics and being handed a gold medal, or being presented with the Stanley Cup.

This notion is wrong, to the point of being perverse. Writers—the same is true for all other artists—are not engaged in a competition in the first place. I will expand on this point as the blog progresses, but for the moment I will leave it at this:

No writer ever sat down to write a story in order to beat another story, or another writer. It’s enough to state the idea to realize how ludicrous it is.

So why do we keep approaching awards as if they did have anything to do with competition? I don’t exempt the Dragon Awards from this tendency, by the way. We, too, in the first year, handed out awards in fifteen categories labeled as “Best of”—which, being blunt, is nonsensical on the face of it. Labeling something the “Best of” novel or short story or movie or comic is akin to handing out awards for “Best Person” or “Best Family” or, for that matter, “Best Spiritual Experience.”

However, when the awards were presented at the ceremony by Bill Fawcett, a Senior Advisor and volunteer, he made it clear that the Dragon Award is really a recognition that one or another work produced during the past period of eligibility was outstanding. And that is the spirit in which I think all literary and artistic awards should be viewed. In the opinion of that group of people—who are always a much smaller subset than the total number of readers, or listeners, or viewers—who nominated and voted on the award, this or that story or dramatic presentation or game was particularly outstanding.

The point which follows from this is that, just as stories are not competing with each other, literary awards don’t compete with each other, either. To be sure, different people can have differing assessments as to which awards better reflect their own tastes and opinions. But that’s not the same thing as a competition—in which the underlying presumption is that there is One True Winner, who enjoys that status because it (or he or she, if the award is handed to a person) is the One Best Story of the Year.

Thinking this way, being blunt about it, is idiotic. You might as well say that in the competition between chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, in the past year vanilla was clearly the Best Flavor. Or that people who like the color blue more than the color green clearly won the Preferred Color Contest last year.

Uh… no, they didn’t. They just prefer the color blue to the color green. That’s all—and that’s it. There is no “right” color, there is no “best” flavor.

Most of the grief people get into when they wrangle over literary and artistic awards stems ultimately from this logical fallacy: they keep trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. They keep trying to turn something that is inherently not competitive into a contest which has clear and objectively definable winners and losers.

So, some people come to the assessment that the Hugo award, or the Nebula award, or the World Fantasy Award, does not reflect their own tastes and opinions when it comes to science fiction and fantasy. So far, so good. Those people have every bit as much right to that assessment as do the people who closely follow the Hugo and Nebula and WFA because they find those awards do reflect, pretty well, their own opinions.

Where the problem arises is when people go that one step farther. Because they confuse literary and artistic awards with prizes handed out to contest winners—the Stanley Cup, for instance—they grow resentful. They feel they’ve been cheated. They think the context is rigged because it doesn’t have the outcome they would prefer.

Their complaint, in essence, is that year after year the recipients of the Hugo (or Nebula or WFA) stepped out of bounds when they caught the touchdown pass, or hit a serve that was called “in” when it was actually “out,” or in one or another way didn’t win according to the rules. And never mind that there aren’t any rules governing what or who wins or loses, because it’s not actually a competition and the terms “win” and “lose” are meaningless anyway. And never mind that the only thing that defines the “winner” of an award—who should properly be called simply the recipient of the award—is that fact that more people in whatever subset group was voting on the award preferred it to any other.

Period. That’s all there is, folks. If you don’t like the recipients of the Hugo award, or any other, the only sensible conclusion to draw is that your own tastes and opinions are at variance with those of the voters. That doesn’t make those voters wrong, and thinking that they are is just silly. You might as well insist to someone who tells you that they like vanilla that they’re wrong because they should like chocolate. Or if their favorite color is blue that they’re wrong and it ought to be red.

As it happens, I am in that subset of people who has come to the assessment that the Hugo, Nebula and WFA do not (or do no longer, in some cases) reflect very well my own tastes and opinions when it comes to science fiction and fantasy. That is not a value judgment on my part. In fact, it’s not a judgment of any kind. It’s simply an observation.

Most years, if anyone asks me who’s been nominated for a Hugo or Nebula award, the answer is: I have no idea. I haven’t paid any attention to those awards since some time in the 1980s—and I never paid any attention to the World Fantasy Award. That’s because the tastes and opinions of the people who vote for those awards have diverged enough from my own that I find they are not (or are no longer) of any use to me as a guide for what I might want to read.

If a friend of mine happens to be nominated for a Hugo or a Nebula, I will pay some attention to the award that year. But I only do it because I wish them well. Whether they win or not will have no effect on my own assessment of how well they write.

I want to emphasize that this is not a criticism of those awards. I pay no attention to most television shows, either. That includes TV shows which my wife dotes on but which, for whatever reason, simply don’t resonate with me. But I don’t tell her that she’s wrong to like those shows.

This is not something that is purely subjective, either. What lies beneath is exactly the same factor that makes literary and artistic awards qualitatively different from athletic awards.

The way athletic awards work is twofold: First, you make a form of human activity as tightly constrained as possible. To use football as the example, you must play on a field that is rectangular and measures three hundred and sixty feet long, including the end zones, and one hundred and sixty feet wide. Etc., etc., etc., etc., etc.—the official rule book of the National Football League is over two hundred pages long. Each and every page of which is designed to constrain the variables involved in the game as much as possible.

Secondly, the whole purpose of these limitations and constraints is to make the activity completely homogenous and therefore directly comparable. Both teams on the field are doing exactly the same thing, with exactly the same goal—which is what makes their activity comparable and allows for the awarding of a prize at the end of the activity, in whatever form winning the contest entails.

None of this is in any way comparable to what happens in literature and the arts. To the contrary, authors and artists are often admired and praised precisely because they break the “rules” and demonstrate alternate ways of displaying their art form.

No two stories have exactly the same goals, which means they simply can’t be directly compared in the way that athletic activity can be. One story might be written in a rather simple writing style because one of its goals is to be accessible to a younger audience. Measuring its literary “worth” in terms of wordplay, therefore, it “scores” pretty low. But if you measure it in terms of how well it engages the interest of teenage readers, it might “score” extremely well.

Which of those two criteria—and there are a multitude of criteria, not just two—should be considered paramount? Well, that depends on each individual reader’s tastes, opinions and purposes. I would particularly stress purposes, by the way, because no two readers approach a given story with exactly the same goal in mind.

For all these reasons, no literary award will or can please everybody. Of course, the outcome of any football game does not please everybody, either—but everybody who watched the game can agree on which team won. You simply can’t do that with stories (or any other form of art) because the whole notion of “winning” is nonsensical to begin with. Winning at what?

That doesn’t mean literary awards are useless, as I will discuss in later essays. It just means that you have to have a clear understanding of what they can and can’t do in the first place. You can bestow an award on a story for being outstanding—a word which simply means “stands out from all others.” Standing out, by its nature, presupposes a certain perspective or viewpoint. Someone else, with a different perspective, will not find that story to stand out very much, if at all.

That is precisely why you wind up with lots of different awards. One or another group of readers wants to emphasize something that other groups of readers don’t find particularly noteworthy or interesting.

So it has always been, so it will always be.

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 57

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 57

Mackay’s shoulders hunched slightly, as if he were bracing himself against a gale. “‘I’m a cavalry officer,” he muttered.

“So what? You can’t engage in Christian charity without losing your spurs or something?”

She pushed into the doorway, forcing Alex to the side. Then, pointed a finger at those portions of Freising which were visible. Which wasn’t all that much, since the domicile the USE army had sequestered for Alex and Julie’s use wasn’t on either of the town’s little squares. All that could be seen was a narrow street — not much more than an alley, really — and some nondescript buildings much like the one they were in. Most of those, as was true of buildings everywhere in Freising, had been seized by the Third Division to provide housing for its officers and men. In the distance beyond, perhaps two hundred yards away, they could see a church spire rising above the roofs.

“There’s a whole family still there one street over — no, two streets, depending on what you call a ‘street’. A husband who’s got some sort of disability, I think from an accident, his wife who’s holding everything together, her mother, who’s so frail I think she’d blow away in a breeze, her mother’s second husband — not her dad, her stepdad — who’s even more frail than Grandma is, and five kids of whom two are orphans she took in. That’s what your” — here she did a fair imitation of Alex’s brogue — “‘desp’rate Bavarian blackguards’ actually look like.”

She lowered the finger. “The oldest kid’s a girl named Mettchen, somewhere around sixteen years old. I already talked to them and Mettchen will be coming over every day to help me out with whatever I need.” The finger of accusation became an open hand, palm up. “For which we are going to pay them, so cough up, buddy.”

“Well…”

“Yes, I insist.”

“Well…”

“Do I need to drag out the Wand of Womanly Persuasion?”

“Well….”

****

The town’s Rathaus had been one of the very first buildings in Freising seized by the Third Division. Sieges of a major city like Munich were protracted affairs, and the division’s commanding general had seen no reason his troops shouldn’t enjoy their stay in Bavaria as much as possible, within the necessary limits dictated by military discipline.

So, the tavern in the Rathaus’ basement was operating at full capacity, around the clock. There wasn’t much food left, and wouldn’t be until the supply barges coming down the Isar arrived. By now, units of the SoTF National Guard had taken control of the Danube all the way down to Passau, well past the confluence of the Danube with the Isar. That provided the Third Division with an excellent water route down which it could bring all its supplies.

But if the food was low, the beer wasn’t. Since the Hangman Regiment had been established in the first place as the Third Division’s disciplinary unit, it had been placed in charge of the Rathaus. From the point of view of the regiment’s commander, Lt. Colonel Jeff Higgins, that had the up side of providing him with the best quarters in the town. On the down side, it meant he was now in charge of a bunch of drunks.

Would-be drunks, anyway. He’d established a limit of three steins of beer per visit and only two visits a day — with records meticulously kept.

And bribes meticulously taken also, he didn’t doubt. But by now Jeff’s sergeants knew him quite well. The DM didn’t mind soldiers enjoying themselves, but if things got out of hand he’d crack down hard so it was best to make sure everything stayed within reasonable limits.

The sergeants’ task was made easier by the fact that almost all of Freising’s inhabitants had fled and taken refuge inside Munich’s walls. The worst disciplinary problems with soldiers occupying an enemy town or city usually came about when liquor was combined with the presence of young women. But Jeff had had his adjutants check and there was only one family with a teenage girl still in the city — and that family was under the protection of Julie Sims. Jeff saw to it that the word was passed around through the whole division.

Nobody in the USE army was going to annoy Julie Sims, certainly not a unit as heavily made of CoC recruits as the Third Division. Partly, because they knew what an asset she’d been to their cause. Partly also, of course, because they knew that Julie never went anywhere without her Wand of Womanly Persuasion, which no soldier in his right mind — or dead drunk, for that matter — wanted to have applied to him.

All in all, as Lt. Colonel Jeff Higgins relaxed in his quarters on the top floor of the Rathaus, with his feet propped up, a book in one hand and a stein of beer in the other, things were looking good. War still sucked, but some parts of it were a lot less sucky than others.

Royal Palace

Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe

Gustav II Adolf, Emperor of the United States of Europe, King of Sweden, High King of the Union of Kalmar, contemplated his next title. Should he stick to the existing “emperor,” with a newly-enlarged empire? Rather greatly enlarged, too, since Bavaria was one of the bigger realms in the continent.

Or should he add “King of Bavaria” to the list? But he only spent a short time considering that option before setting it aside. It simply wouldn’t do for a Lutheran king to be ruling a Catholic kingdom. If he was going to exercise direct power over Bavaria, it would be better to have that power filtered through the USE’s provincial structure.

Except that… For a moment, he silently cursed the religious compromise he’d made with Mike Stearns. By the terms of that agreement, Bavaria would be able to create its own provincial established church if it chose to do so, and he had no doubt at all the stubborn papists would insist on hanging on to their superstitious creed.

Better than being “King of Bavaria,” certainly, but still not good.

That left… What was the term the English usurper had used? The Oliver Cromwell fellow?

The emperor rose from his armchair and went over to one of the bookcases in his library. This one was devoted entirely to down-time copies of up-time texts from Grantville.

He found the volume he was seeking — The Century of Revolution, by someone named Hill — and quickly found the entry he was looking for. As he had many times before, Gustav Adolf silently blessed the American concept of the “index.” Since he still had enormous power as the monarch of his own nation, he’d decreed two years earlier than all books printed in Sweden were required to have indexes. Yes, all of them! There’d be none of this up-time slackness about not requiring indexes in books of fiction.

Lord Protector.

He mused on the matter as he resumed his seat. Yes, he thought, that would do quite nicely. Lord Protector of Bavaria. The very uncertainty of the term — what exactly is a “lord protector”? — would allow him to sidestep the awkward issue of religion. Let the Bavarian heretics manage their own internal affairs, so long as he controlled the duchy’s foreign relations.

That matter settled in his mind, Gustav Adolf decided to re-read the report he’d received yesterday from General Stearns. He rose and went to look for it. That took a bit more time because he couldn’t remember which trash can he’d thrown it into after he balled up the report, cursed it mightily — nothing silent there — and threw it away.

After he found it, he unwadded the report, flattened it out as best as possible, and read through it again.

Which didn’t take long. Mike Stearns had faults — a great many of them, in the emperor’s current mood — but one thing he was not was pointlessly loquacious.

So.

He read through it again.

“I am not fooled,” he growled. But he knew perfectly well that Stearns didn’t think he was fooled. The man was a sneaking duplicitous maneuvering scoundrel, but he wasn’t disrespectful. The purpose of the report was not to fool Gustav Adolf but to fool anyone else to whom the emperor might show the report as a way of demonstrating that his now-public clash with the so-called “Prince of Germany” — ridiculous title, not to mention a presumptuous one — was entirely justified.

But…

“Perhaps it’s just as well,” he mused. Then, rising again, he went over to the small fireplace that was always active whenever he was in residence and tossed the report into the flames. That wasn’t the sort of thing he wanted to leave lying around.

Lord Protector. It did have a nice ring to it.

 

Challenges of the Deeps – eARC

Is Available!

http://www.baen.com/challenges-of-the...

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 56

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 56

Chapter 27

On the Isar River in Bavaria

A few miles north of Munich

Tom Simpson surveyed the Isar River, paying particular attention to the two barges moored to the nearby dock, each of which was carrying a ten-inch naval rifle. The barges were more like big rafts than anything else. The Isar was very shallow in a lot of places. That was part of the reason it had taken them so many days to get the rifles down here.

“Let me see if I can translate my commanding general’s Newspeak into some resemblance of the King’s English,” he said, turning to face Mike Stearns. “After I’ve spent weeks busting my ass — well, okay, I’m an officer; busting my ass busting grunts’ asses — in order to get you the naval rifles the Bavarians spiked and in the case of two of them tried to drown, you want me to figure out ways to slow down our progress with the two still-soggy bastards.”

Tom jerked a thumb at the two rifles on the barges. “Or do you want me to roll these over and dump them into the Isar? That way, we’ll have four soggy bastards.”

Mike Stearns pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m sure there’s something in military regulations that prohibits subordinate officers from being excessively sarcastic.”

Tom grunted. “Probably would be, if the USE military had a Uniform Code of Military Justice, which we don’t. So that means down-time rules apply and since I’m your brother-in-law I get to be sarcastic. I’m afraid the major general is just going to have to suck it up.”

“Since you insist on speaking the King’s English, your assessment is pretty much correct.” Mike nodded toward the two guns on the barges. “Those will do fine for starting to beat down Munich’s walls.”

“Go faster with four of ’em.”

“I don’t want it to go faster. We’re not going to be launching any assaults so casualties will be light and almost all of them will be Bavarian because those ten-inch rifles have a much longer range than anything the Bavarians can shoot back with. We can take our time reducing the walls. If we speed it up that just means I have to order a ground assault sooner and I’m still hoping to avoid that altogether.”

Tom didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, sighing a little, he took off his hat and ran fingers through his thick hair. “You’re playing a risky game, Mike. If Gustav Adolf figures out that you’re stalling him, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Not… exactly. Or maybe I should say it’s not that simple.” Mike removed his own hat and copied Tom’s fingers-through-the-hair movement. “Gustav Adolf is a very smart man and about as experienced a general as any alive. I’m sure he’s already figured out that I’m slowing everything down. But what he thinks and what he knows — and can prove — are two different things, and the political risks cut both ways. His authority is solid on the surface but it’s still spongy-soft on the inside, because of everything that happened after Lake Bledno. He can’t afford an open clash with me — not for a while, at least — over something that’s so murky he can’t prove that I’m guilty of anything.”

He put the hat back on his head, wishing for a moment that military protocol didn’t insist on the blasted things. In cold weather, hats were splendid. On a warm day in late May, coupled with a uniform that was too heavy for the season to begin with, they were a damn nuisance.

But, customs were customs — for no institutions as rigidly as armies, except maybe some churches. So, the hat went back on his head. Generals had to sweat just like grunts did.

Not as much, of course. They got to ride horses and were exempt from manual labor. But they had to sweat some.

“Besides, I’m not actually that sure just how bound and determined our emperor is to squash Maximilian like a bug,” he added.

Tom’s eyes widened a little. “I thought he was hard as nails on that subject.”

“Officially, yes.” Mike barked a little laugh. “I’ve seen him do his inimitable roar on the subject in front of a room full of officials and courtiers. When he wants to, that man can bellow like nobody’s business.”

“I’ve heard him,” said Tom, wincing. “But you’re saying you think it’s an act?”

Mike shrugged. “With Gustav Adolf, you can’t ever be sure. He’s got intimidation down to a science and he’s usually playing the power game on several levels — simultaneously, mind you, not sequentially.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“There was bound to be at least one Bavarian spy in that room, who heard Gustav Adolf swear that he would see Maximilian’s corpse trampled under oxen and the remains scattered to the winds.”

“An actual spy? Really?”

Mike shrugged again. “Define ‘spy.’ I doubt if there’s anyone at court in Magdeburg who’s the Bavarian equivalent of James Bond. But someone who’s willing to let his palm get greased for information, from time to time? By persons whose identity and purpose remains carefully unstated? There’s probably a dozen of those.”

“Point.”

“So Maximilian is sure to know that Gustav Adolf has vowed to have him die a horrible death, which means — maybe — you never know with that bastard either –”

“That he’ll be more willing to cut a deal. Gotcha.” Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, grimaced.

“Okay, boss. One slowdown coming up. You do realize I’m going to have to let some of my men in on it? I can’t fake it entirely on my own.”

“Yeah, I figured that. But I think we’ve got at least a month before Gustav Adolf starts making a fuss about it.”

“That long?”

“Oh, yeah. Even without screwing off, it took you this long to get just one of the guns out of the river — and it was the easier of the two.”

Tom’s expression was on the sour side. “Ten-inch guns are heavier than hell and the Danube’s a muddy river. It didn’t take long before they were buried in the river bed — if you want to call that muck a ‘bed’ — and we’re working with seventeenth century technology. What slowed us down the most, though, was that you didn’t leave me more than skeleton crew to do the work.”

“Oh, come on! You had a bigger crew than that. I figure it was closer to a starving-concentration-camp-inmate-sized crew.”

“You did that on purpose,” Tom said accusingly. “I can see it all now.”

“I did have a major campaign on my hands against one of the most redoubtable armies in Europe. I did face a very competent and experienced opposing general. I did need every good artilleryman I could get my hands on.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah — and I’m sure you pointed all that out to the emperor in your reports. At great length.”

“Actually, no. Gustav Adolf knows me too well. If I’d droned on and on about how tough I had it, he would have gotten suspicious right away.”

“Well… true. Your style when it comes to stuff like that is more along the lines of ‘piece of cake’ and ‘consider it done.’ My wife — that would be your sister, who’s known you her whole life — thinks you sometimes suffer from overconfidence.”

“So does my wife,” agreed Mike, “except Becky usually leaves off the ‘sometimes’ part.”

Freising, Bavaria

After inspecting his wife and daughter’s new quarters — which were his too, technically, but he figured he wouldn’t be there very often on account of the cavalry patrols he’d be leading — Alex Mackay pronounced them adequate but no better, marched to the open door and stood in the doorway glaring at the inhabitants of the town beyond. Best to dishearten the Bavarian swine right off, lest they begin entertaining notions of rebellion against their new rightful masters.

And mistresses — even if the one whose well-being he was particularly concerned with had a lackadaisical attitude.

“Oh, leave off, Alex!” Julie scoffed. “There’s nobody out there for you to scowl at in the first place.”

It was true that none of Freising’s indigenous residents were visible from the doorway, but that could be due to their cunning. Bands of them might be out there lurking in cellars and whatnot, just waiting for nightfall when they would sortie and commit unspeakable depredations —

“Leave off, I said!” Julie now had her hands planted on her hips and was scowling even more fiercely than her husband. “The town’s been swept twice and there aren’t more than twenty people still living here — because they’re all too old to move around much anymore, or they’re immediate family members who had the gumption to stay behind to take care of their old folks and what you ought to be doing is figuring out how they might get a little help.”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 38

This book should be available now so this is the last snippet.

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 38

Chapter 21

Bonn, Eigenhaus House

October 6, 1634

Melchior took his hat off, slapped it against his leg and put it back on while looking at the stout half-timbered house. “Is there anything in Bonn that the Eigenhaus family is not involved in?”

Wickradt chuckled. “Probably not. But having just one place to go when needing something does have its benefits.”

“Are you sure this is where the Jülich-Berg heir and his mother are staying? If we don’t find some way to get Hesse to stop the cannons, I’ll have to surrender, or the town will be nothing but rubble in a few weeks. Those new cannons are devastating, and Hesse shows far less regard for casualties than I’d expected.”

“No, but I’m sure this is where we should start if we wants to find them.” Wickradt knocked on the door.

“Good evening, Lotti.” Melchior smiled at the young woman from the militias. Without her helmet he could see that her blond hair had dark roots, as if she was lightening her hair with chamomile or chemicals in the manner of certain Viennese court ladies. Few hausfraus would permit such behavior in their servant, but Lotti’s language showed that despite her sunburned skin, her birth and upbringing had to be far above the servant’s class. That she had given her name only as Lotti and made no mention of a family name was a bit odd, but with all the shady deals and betrayals following in the wake of the war, many previously honorable names were now a matter of shame. The mystery of Lotti’s name was probably nothing more than a young woman’s disapproval of her family’s actions. Her passionate outburst about being a pawn in other people’s games at their first meeting had certainly indicated something of that nature.

Melchior shook his head at his own thoughts as they were guided through the house. He really liked the passionate young woman, and admired her determination to fight for herself and her child. Most of the other women had been withdrawn from the walls once Hesse had encircled the town, and his snipers proved that the walls were well within the range of his new American riffles.

Lotti showed them into a pleasant room with five chairs arranged in front of a fireplace. Two of the chairs were occupied by their hostess, Frau Benedicte, and her sister, Irmgard, whom Melchior vaguely recognized as the woman in charge of the hospital set up in one of the Stift’s buildings. Turning from greeting their hostess and finding Lotti sitting in the fifth chair made Melchior raise his eyebrows.

“Please sit down General von Hatzfeldt.” Lotti looked both tense and amused. “And you too, Commander Wickradt. I have something to say of importance to the defense of Bonn.”

Melchior gave a brief bow, and sat down in the chair beside her.

“Actually it’s more in the nature of a proposal,” Lotti continued. “Will you marry me, General?”

“My dear young woman…” Melchior tried to think fast. She couldn’t be the missing Jülich-Berg widow. No one got that sunburned that fast. Was one of Hesse’s sisters missing? The two youngest would be about the right age. “I am of course deeply honored and flattered that such a lovely young woman would consider me as husband, and I am quite aware that your birth must be at least equal to my own, but since you have mentioned the defense of Bonn, I am afraid I must ask you for an explanation before I can give the question its due consideration.”

Lotti gave a brief laugh at Melchior’s eloquence. “It sounds as if you’ve been spending more time at court and less on the battlefield than rumor has it. I am Katharina Charlotte von Zweibrücken, the widow of Wolfgang of Jülich-Berg. Hesse has been turning over most of the stones in Berg, searching for me and my son.”

“I see. And were you perhaps in the habit of going for long rides in the sun?”

“No. Why?” The young woman now looked confused.

“Charlotte’s skin has been stained with a walnut concoction, General,” Frau Benedicte interrupted with a smile. “She really is whom she claims to be.”

“Ah.” Melchior had heard about ways to lighten the skin with lemon juice and milk, but of course no one he knew would have wanted to make their skin appear darker. “Please pardon my suspicion, My Lady.” Melchior hesitated. “Given our previous conversations about pawns, I cannot imagine you being willing to seek the protection of Hesse. But would you be willing to pretend doing so? At the moment we are rather desperately looking for a way to stall Hesse’s attack, but he knows both Bonn and Cologne have applied for membership of the USE, so only something that he really wants would make him hesitate.”

“No.” Charlotte shook her head, and her eyes looked even harder than when Melchior had first met her on the wall. “I’m sorry, General, but I must think beyond the present danger both for myself and for my son. If you are willing to offer me your protection as my husband, I have a letter ready announcing both the marriage and that I’ll be defending Bonn as a fighter on the walls in case of an attack. Frau Benedicte assures me that she can get copies of the letter to Gustavus Adolphus as well as to my family. That he would knowingly have killed his emperor’s niece should be enough to prevent Hesse from attacking Bonn. At least if you make certain Hesse know that Gustavus Adolphus knows.”

“You’ll literally be gambling your life on that assumption.”

“Yes,” Charlotte took a deep breath, “but I’ll take death from something I can at least shoot back at, before surrendering myself into a powerless position.”

“So: Death before Surrender, but: It’s Better to Marry Than to Burn.” Melchior sense of humor suddenly bubbled to the surface. His feelings for the young widow weren’t anywhere nearly as strong as for his lost Maria, but getting a wife of breeding, courage and spirit in addition to the best solution to the siege he could hope for here and now, was an excellent deal by anybody’s standard. “You are placing a lot of trust in a man you barely know, my lady,” he continued seriously. “I am quite willing to protect you to the best of my abilities without asking for your hand in return.”

“No.” Charlotte looked Melchior straight in the eyes. “As an unmarried woman I am far too tempting for my family — as well as for Hesse — to use in their political maneuverings, and I cannot fight them on my own. Frau Benedicte has assured me that considering your upbringing it is highly unlikely that you’ll ever try to control my thinking — or even speaking. Anything else I can live with.”

“Certainly.” Melchior said. “My late mother was a woman of a most original and independent mind, and I would never . . .” He stopped and shook his head, “That is not important right now. If you are sure this is what you want, then I am yours to command.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 55

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 55

“The whole point of having me remain behind in the capital while our brother and his heir leave for the safe refuge of Linz is because, being male, I can assume command of the city’s forces. You, being female, cannot. So what is the purpose of having you stay as well?”

“That’s pure twaddle. The command of the city’s forces will actually be in the hands of General Baudissin and other experienced commanders. I know it, you know it, every soldier knows it — or they’d be sleeping a lot worse at night, not meaning to disparage my little brother’s non-existent military reputation — and probably every street urchin knows it as well.”

A low blow. Accurate and true, but low.

Happily, at that very moment the oldest of the four siblings appeared at their side. Cecilia Renata, despite being a woman, did not actually have to obey Leopold. But she did have to obey Ferdinand III, emperor of Austria-Hungary, King of Croatia (and still formally King of Bohemia as well, at least until Drugeth returned from Prague and a new treaty was signed).

“Brother,” Leopold said, lowering his nose just enough to indicate with disapproval their sister, “who is also the emperor of Austria-Hungary and holder of at least two pages worth of additional titles when written in Chancery copperplate, tell Cecilia Renata she has to leave Vienna when you do.”

“Brother,” said Cecilia Renata, “tell Leopold Wilhelm he’s being an officious ass. I’m staying. That’s all there is to it.”

Ferdinand III, emperor of etc., etc., etc., had simply come over to enquire as to their respective states of health. He looked at Leopold, then at Cecilia Renata, back at Leopold, back at Cecilia Renata, shook his head and walked off.

“You see?” The female nose elevated in triumph.

****

“He’s a fucking prince — fine, archduke. Same difference. He’ll take advantage of you.”

“How does ‘advantage’ come into the simple matter of whether I screw him or not?”

“He’s up here” — Denise raised her hand high — “and you’re way down here.” The left hand waved about as low as she could place it.

“Only if that’s the position we assume. I could be on top of him, instead. Or he could be –”

“Cut it out!”

Minnie smiled. “I appreciate your concern. But I can’t help wonder where that concern was hiding when I was cavorting with the hostler in Dresden who built the airstrip for us.”

“That was different. Godeke was a commoner. Like my boyfriend Eddie. Not a damn prince — fine, fucking archduke — taking advantage of you.”

Minnie squinted, as if she were trying to decipher very fine print. “You Americans are just plain weird, sometimes. If the hostler had gotten me pregnant, I’d have been in a difficult position since Godeke was a nice guy but I had no desire to marry him. So I would have had to raise the kid with no help beyond what little I could squeeze out of him in a court of law, which was maybe three turnips. Nineteen-year-old hostlers earn what you call squat and I wouldn’t even go that high.”

She turned her head to contemplate the person across the room who was the nexus of their quarrel. “Whereas if he sires a bastard on me I’m sitting what you’d call pretty for the rest of my life.”

“He’ll abandon you! He’ll say the kid isn’t his!”

“Why in the world would he do that?” Her squint got even squintier. “Royal scions always have bastards, everybody knows it — including and maybe even especially their wives. If anything, it’s an advantage all the way around. From a prospective bride’s point of view, it proves he’s fertile. From an established wife’s point of view, it means maybe he won’t be pestering her except when he needs an heir.”

Minnie shrugged. “But it’s all a moot point, anyway. First, because right now I’m still just thinking about it. Second, because I have the needed supplies to avoid getting pregnant if I decide to go ahead — as you know perfectly well, since I got them from you in the first place. And, thirdly, because I don’t give a damn — no, let me expand that into full blasphemic proportions: I don’t give a good God-damn — what the theologians say about birth control.”

All Christian denominations in the seventeenth century except some of those imported by the Americans disapproved of contraception, and had since the second century of the Christian Era. It wasn’t just Catholics, either. Both Martin Luther and John Calvin had weighed in against the practice.

Minnie, however, was a free-thinker on this as on pretty much any and all questions of a cosmological, cosmogenic, spiritual, theological, doctrinal, sacerdotal, ministerial, sacred, sacrosanct and sanctified nature and didn’t care what any establishment had to say on the subjects. She figured her glass eye gave her all the authority she needed to make up her own mind.

She brought that glass eye to bear on Denise, to drive home the point. While, with the other — the one that actually worked — she glanced around to see what Archduke Leopold Wilhelm was doing.

At the moment, he was trying to pretend he wasn’t looking at her.

Splendid. The likelihood that the answer would wind up being “yes” moved up a notch.

When she brought the real eye back to Denise, she saw that her friend was still being sulky.

“And what about you?” she demanded. “What if you get pregnant?”

“Eddie would do the right thing,” Denise said stoutly.

“Well, of course he would. But that’s the whole problem in a nutshell, isn’t it? What’s the ‘right thing’ for a pilot to do when he hasn’t got a pot to piss in except that empty bottle Eddie keeps in the cockpit for when he can’t hold it in?”

“That’s not true!” Denise said hotly. “Eddie’s got — got — lots of stuff. Well, his family does, anyway. And besides, I don’t care. Neither should you. It’s the principle of the thing.”

Minnie was back to squinting. Very, very fine print.

“How did you Americans get so weird? I’ve read that famous Constitution of yours. Three times. I don’t remember any place where it says that it’s forbidden to ever be practical about anything. Is there a secret amendment, maybe? Written in invisible ink or something?”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 37

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 37

Chapter 20

Bonn, Eigenhaus House

October 5, 1634

“The last of the Hessian cannons are being moved into position, Frau Benedicte.” Charlotte leaned her gun against the wooden panels in the hall, and removed her helmet. “All the rain has softened the ground, which is slowing them down, but the Town Guard I spoke to expected they would be ready to start bombarding us from all sides the day after tomorrow.”

“I know, my dear. Commander Wickradt came by earlier today. But go remove your kyras, and spend a moment greeting your son. Then come join me and Irmgard. We need to make plans.”

* * *

When Charlotte entered Frau Benedicte’s private parlor, she found the two sisters looking at maps spread all over the biggest table.

“Good evening, my dear.” Irmgard came smiling forward to hug Charlotte. “I took a look at your baby earlier. A very healthy boy.”

“Yes, very.” Charlotte smiled and hugged the friendly midwife back. “I wish I could have nursed him for longer, but my milk dried out after a few weeks. Fortunately Frau Siemens has milk to spare, as her little girl doesn’t seem to need very much, so she can give him a little extra while I’m on the walls. But I went by the infirmary on my way back.” Charlotte sat down in the chair, where she used to sit repairing the Eigenhause linen, leaned back her head and sighed. “I never went to the hospital in Düsseldorf, where the wounded from Wolfgang’s campaign were taken. They sometimes sent a request for this or that — mainly food and linen or money for medicine — but I just passed those on to my chatelaine. I never realized how bad it would be. How children would also be wounded, when cannons were firing at a town. I suppose you both know that the Mittelfeld household was among the first hit? That Karl’s wife was killed immediately, and that two of their children died this afternoon?” She looked at the two older women, who nodded silently to her questions.

“Yes. There’s only the oldest daughter and the baby left, and Karl isn’t back from Mainz yet,” said Irmgard. “That’ll be some homecoming for my old friend.”

“Knowing how busy you both are with the infirmary, I presume you didn’t ask me to come here to discuss my little Bobo?”

“Well, only indirectly,” said Frau Benedicte. “It looks as if neither von Hatzfeldt’s regiments nor any orders from Gustavus Adolphus are going to be here in time to stop Hesse from attacking. We might be able to prevent him from taking the town before help arrives, but those walls weren’t built with modern cannons in mind, so it’s going to cost a lot of lives.”  Frau Benedicte looked straight at Charlotte. “You might be able to prevent that.”

“How? Giving myself and my baby into his hands would keep only the two of us safe — or relatively so — but Hesse would still want Bonn. Or are you considering trying to trade us for a promise?”

“Not quite.” Frau Benedicte answered seriously. “Hesse definitely want both Bonn and Cologne, but not — we believe — at the cost of severely angering Gustavus Adolphus. And that is what would happen if Hesse killed or seriously endangered the favorite niece of Gustavus Adolphus’s favorite sister. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes. Probably. And I know I owe you for your help and protection.” Charlotte rose from her chair and started wandering back and forth across the floor.

“My dear,” said Irmgard. “We know that publishing your whereabouts would place the two of you in a vulnerable position, but if Hesse knew you were on the walls, and also that Gustavus Adolphus knew that Hesse knew, this might buy us the time we need. Once the siege is lifted, I promise you we’ll do anything in our power to get you and your baby safely back to your family. We’ll not agree to any deal involving turning you over to Hesse.”

Charlotte stopped her pacing and nodded. “I’ve been thinking too. A bad fight. A long siege. Such increases the risk of a massacre. Everybody knows that after Magdeburg. No leader, no matter how strict can be certain to keep his men under discipline during a sack. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to use my presence to protect the town, without placing myself and little Bobo in more danger than absolutely necessary. So: what do you both know about General von Hatzfeldt? I mean: as a person. His military life must be well known to everyone in this town by now.”

“We haven’t seen that much of him for the last twenty years,” said Frau Benedicte with a frown. “But before that he was a very nice boy and young man. Studious like all of old Sebastian’s children, and very idealistic. I cannot imagine what made him abandon his plans to enter the Order of St. John, and instead take up a life as a mercenary. I know he has done very well for himself financially, and Commander Wickradt has told us that in addition to being ennobled, von Hatzfeldt has also been given plenipotentiary powers from Vienna to act on behalf of the HRE with regard to the entire Cologne area.”

“What General von Hatzfeldt was like twenty years ago doesn’t help,” said Charlotte curtly. “Wolfgang wasn’t a bad husband until the external pressure and threats mounted to more than he could take.”

The two older women looked at each other, then at Charlotte. “Husband?” asked Frau Benedicte. “Are you considering marrying Melchior von Hatzfeldt?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte harshly. “And not just for the siege. Sooner or later I’ll have to let people know where I am. My brother, Friedrich, will do his best to protect me and little Bobo, but Friedrich is still very young, and the rest of the family — including both Gustavus Adolphus and Aunt Katharina — are going to want me to remarry. And to their benefit, not necessarily to mine. The only way I can see for me to retain some control of both Bobo and my own life, is if I am already married when they find me. I want a husband powerful enough to protect me and Bobo, but of a rank too low for him to aspire to Bobo’s heritage. A birth lower than mine would also make it difficult for him to get away with treating me the way Wolfgang did, but a commoner is not a possibility. That would make my relatives demand the marriage be annulled. General and Imperial Count Melchior von Hatzfeldt seem to fit my requirement fairly well.

“Benedicte told me you had met him on the walls,” said Irmgard. “How do you feel about him?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Charlotte stopped pacing and sat down, wrapping her arms around her body. “I don’t know.” She frowned. “He seemed intelligent. And kind. And didn’t seem to mind me talking back to him.”

“No,” said Frau Benedicte firmly. “I’m sure he knows how to keep his soldiers in line, but none of old Sebastian’s children would ever try to suppress another person’s mind. The entire family is rather extreme in that regard.” She smiled at Charlotte. “It would not have done for you as a first marriage, but as a widow with lands of her own, there would certainly be benefits for you in such a marriage. I suppose the solution had not occurred to me because his ennoblement is so new; I’m simply not used to think about Melchior von Hatzfeldt as an Imperial Count.”

“Yes, yes, Dicte. We can all see the practical benefits, but there is more to life than that, and Charlotte doesn’t need a second bad marriage.” Irmgard was still frowning. “Charlotte, if you disregard all the practical considerations, would you still at least consider marrying him?”

“I don’t know.” Charlotte sat silent for a while, still huddled and looking down on the floor. “He’s quite handsome.” She looked up. “I wanted to talk with him again after that first conversation, but while he has come by on all my watches, Commander Wickradt has always been with him. We’ve only been able to exchange the most commonplace remarks. Asking my name, and how Bobo was doing? Things like that.” She smiled a little. “Few of the other women in the militias are still on wall duty, and he definitely wanted me to stay away too. But he didn’t order me away, and he could have.”

“I see.” Now Irmgard was smiling too. “Sounds like the two of you have at least some natural interest in each other.”

“So you both think it would be a good idea?” Charlotte looked at the two sisters.

“For Bonn? Yes. For you?” Frau Benedicte gave a wry smile. “If you are asking whether you’ll be happy, then that’s impossible to know. But you are no fool, Lotti, and heaven knows you no longer trust easily. If you think beyond the present difficulties, and imagine taking control of Wolfgang’s legacy, then would you rather do so on your own, or would you prefer to have Melchior von Hatzfeldt at your side?

Charlotte sat for a while, then she slowly unfolded from her cramped position, and smiled at the two sisters with a twinkle in her eyes. “Do you think you could come up with a gown that would look good as a background for my gun?”