Eric Flint's Blog, page 200

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 07

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 07

One other question Father Johannes had not been able to answer was just what Bishop Franz was planning to do? The bishop had the backing of his wealthy and powerful family, so in Father Johannes’ estimate Bishop Franz wasn’t likely to settle for anything less than a major part of his former power and riches. He certainly wasn’t likely to accept a powerless return like Prince-Abbot Schweinsberg’s. And if Bishop Franz wanted better terms, he’d had to have something to offer the USE in return. A peaceful deal for the entire Cologne area might involve something for Würzburg — and Bamberg too given the bishop’s strong connections to that diocese as well — but Bishop Franz had not asked who to approach for an official peace conference. Which fairly much left him either double-crossing the Archbishop to gain favor with the USE, or riding the Archbishop’s coat-tails on a military campaign and hope to win back his diocese that way. The ladies, Lucie and Maria, had asked far more directly about Bishop Franz’s plans than Father Johannes ever could, but received only evasions.

Claude Beauville personally opened the door beside the window. “Ah! Bon Matin, Father Johannes. Monsieur Abrabanel is here and would like a few words with you in private about the materials available.”

* * *

The muniment room in the basement of Hatzfeldt House was packed with crates and leather-wrapped bundles. Not much light entered from the windows high on the walls, but several bright lamps turned the big table in the center of the room into a suitable place for paperwork. Thick pillows and a sheepskin were heaped in a big armchair to support the crippled hip and back of Lucie von Hatzfeldt. The young widow had gladly accepted Maxie’s suggestion about sorting and listing the many papers in the crates and now spent several hours each day in the silent, whitewashed room — usually with one of her husband’s children sitting by her feet to run errands.

Lucie had been the last of the nine children of Sebastian von Hatzfeldt’s first marriage, and had been born only a few weeks before her mother’s death. Four years later her father had acquired a papal dispensation to marry his cousin, Maria von Hatzfeldt-Wildenburg, a widow with a son and two daughters from her first marriage, and Sebastian’s second wife had simply added all Sebastian’s children and wards to her household and raised them absolutely equally with her own children.

Sebastian’s third marriage — to Margaretha von Backenfoerde, widow of the wealthy Franz Wilhelm von Hatzfeldt-Merten — had been much less fortunate for his children, and despite Lucie’s handicap, all her four brothers had flatly refused to place Margaretha in control of the new Hatzfeldt House. That Backenfoerde Woman had her widow’s seat at Zeppenfeld, and that was all she was getting from this branch of the family! Margaretha was a great favorite of Archbishop Ferdinand, who had arranged her marriage to Sebastian, so Franz had been less vocal than his brothers in his denunciations of his stepmother. His asking Sister Maximiliane, who was nursing her cousin in Bonn, to come to Cologne and take command of the household had been an almost Solomonic solution that pleased everybody — except of course Margaretha.

Normally it would have been Lucie, as her father’s only adult daughter, who had taken command over her unmarried brother’s household, but she had suffered a carriage accident after her wedding to a fellow officer and friend of her brother, Melchior, and had never healed beyond the ability to limp slowly and carefully with the aid of a cane. As she healed, she had patiently handled the papers and finances of her husband’s estates in Jülich, while overseeing the upbringing of his increasing brood of illegitimate children. Melchior — her favorite brother — had at first violently protested this arrangement and even challenged his friend to a duel, but Lucie had told her family that she didn’t mind the arrangement: she liked children, but apparently the damage to her back and hip made it impossible for her to carry a child to term. Less than a year ago her husband had been killed in Bohemia, and she had now left her estates in the hands of Johann Adrian von Hatzfeldt-Werther, her distant cousin and her father’s former ward, and moved to Cologne with all her husband’s five surviving children.

Father Johannes liked her. She seemed a bit dull next to the impressive Maxie, but Lucie’s ready sense of humor and genuine kindness had brought back much of the joy and mischief Father Johannes had lost during his years with the Catholic army. It might be a bit hard on his dignity that she sometimes seemed to regard him as just another of the children she was caring for — she was after all more than ten years his junior — but all in all it was nice to be teased a little again. And she did take his worries about Paul Moreau completely seriously, and told him every little bit in the papers referring to painters.

“Lady Lucie? Your stepmother Margaretha has arrived with her daughter Dame Anna and her niece Lady Sophia von Backenfoerde.” Father Johannes came into the muniment room to aid Lucie in rising from her chair. Normally the child on page duty would have done that, but a Spring Fair was held today, and all the children had been allowed to go there with Thomas, the old head groom.

“Thank you, Father Johannes.” Lucie lifted a cat from her lap, stretched slowly and looked down on the papers on the table. “This is slow work. Everything was just gathered helter-skelter in Fulda as well as Würzburg, and mixing the two lots in this room haven’t helped. We have only just managed get the origin of the last bundles identified, and some of the papers my brother has asked for don’t seem to be here. I’m sorting the Würzburg papers first, but there is nothing so far about your friend.”

“Is Captain Eltz mentioned?”

“My brother hiring cousin Bobo and his men to defend Würzburg is all I’ve found so far. Bobo was killed there by the Swedish attack, you know.”

“Yes.” Father Johannes walked slowly beside Lucie along the basement corridor pushing away the cat trying to twine around the lady’s legs. “Did you know him well?”

“Not really. A rowdy, young boy. He was very eager to become a soldier, never really wanted anything else. The war didn’t seem to bother him the way it does my brothers, Melchior and Hermann. They are good fighters, competent officers, but dislike the violence and gore of the battles.” Lucie climbed the stair, one step at the time. “Bobo on the other hand once told a story about the rats on a battlefield. He found it funny.” Lucie shuddered. “Talking about rats: have you seen Otto Zweimal lately?”

“In Bonn, on my way here this winter. I think, he was just leaving for Bavaria. Why?” Father Johannes stopped on the narrow stairs and smiled down on Lucie; she really was a nice woman.

“Zweimal does Franz’s dirty work the way Felix Gruyard does Archbishop Ferdinand’s. Having Franz mention Zweimal and Gruyard in the same letter makes me smell rats. Dirty little rats scuttling around behind the panels.” Lucie whacked her cane against the wall before hoisting herself up the next step. “Some kind of pamphlets against the Americans and Hesse. Drawings were mentioned, but nothing about your friend. By the way, has Sobby had her baby yet?”

“Sobby?”

“Lady Sophia. She’s Margaretha’s niece, and expecting her first baby within the next month. The two of them are staying at the old Wolfer Hof. Sobby doesn’t just cry over spilled milk, she turns it into a major passion-play. Complete with fireworks in the end. My maid told me there was a fire at Wolfer Hof last night, but if Sobby is going to stay here — not to mention Margaretha — I think I’ll have my future meals in the muniment room. Care to join me?”

“With the greatest delight, Lady Lucie.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 25

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 25

Chapter 12

Mainburg, Bavaria

“We could parachute in,” said Captain Wilhelm Finck. He leaned over and pointed to a spot on the big map spread across the table in Mike Stearns’ HQ tent. “I think this location would be possible, although we’d have to overfly it first to make sure it isn’t too heavily wooded.”

Mike thought about it, for a moment. The idea was tempting. The location Captain Finck suggested was close enough to the Amper River for his team to make the reconnaissance before a Bavarian cavalry unit could find them. Unless they had bad luck, at least — but that was always a given in war.

“You need a Jupiter, am I right?”

The Marine captain shook his head. “Not necessarily, sir. A Jupiter is the only airplane big enough for a parachute drop by more than one or two men. But we could do it from the Pelican as well.”

Mike frowned. “That thing would be visible for miles. There’s no way to use it for a mission that needs to be surreptitious.”

“It depends on the time of day, sir. If we make the drop very early in the morning, there will be enough light for us to see but the airships won’t be very visible from the ground — and we certainly won’t be, falling over the side. If any Bavarian soldier does spot the airship they’ll simply think it’s on a reconnaissance mission.”

Mike grimaced. The captain was right, probably. But it was still one hell of a risk.

Looking at Finck’s face, as the captain continued to gaze intently at the map, it was obvious that he wasn’t concerned about the danger involved. Although it was part of the USE’s marine forces, Finck’s unit — officially the 1st Reconnaissance Company, First Marines — was more closely analogous to what the up-time US military would have called special forces. The unit had been formed in response to the disastrous attempt to invade the Danish island of Bornholm two years earlier during the Baltic War.

Like all such special forces — Mike had met a few during his stint in the US Army up-time — the men who joined them were adrenaline junkies. They simply didn’t have what Mike considered a normal and sane level of caution and risk assessment — which was something, given that he himself was a former prizefighter and had never lost any sleep over mining coal for a living.

“All right, Captain. We’ll make the drop. How soon can you be ready?”

Finck shrugged. “That really depends more on when the Pelican can be placed at our disposal than it does on us, sir. Me and my men can be ready by tomorrow morning.”

“Tell Franchetti — no, tell Major Simpson to tell Franchetti — to give you top priority.”

Mike grimaced again, this time from contemplating weirdness rather than peril. The up-time military he’d known — for sure and certain some of the tight-ass commanders he’d suffered under — would have had conniptions if they’d been dealing with the Third Division’s realities of life. Mike had what amounted to his own tiny little air force consisting of one airship, the Pelican, and on occasion — nowhere nearly often enough, as far as he was concerned — he also had one of the USE Air Force’s warplanes at his disposal for a few days. Always one of the two Belles, never the newer and more advanced Gustavs. Those were reserved for General Torstensson’s use in the Polish theater.

Mostly Mike was dependent on the Pelican for what he whimsically thought of as his “air operations” — and never mind the fact that the Pelican was a civilian airship being leased by the State of Thuringia-Franconia rather that the USE government. And never mind the fact that it was operationally commanded by Major Tom Simpson, who was an USE artillery officer with no formal ties of any kind to the air force or the SoTF’s National Guard.

What the hell, the set-up worked. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

“When we find a good place to cross the river, sir, what do you want us to do?” Finck asked. “Return or stay in place?”

“Stay in place — if you can do so without being spotted. But don’t take any unnecessary risks, Captain. There’ll only be a handful of you and even allowing for your weaponry” — Finck’s unit was armed with lever-action .40-72 carbines — “you’ll be overwhelmed by any sizeable enemy force.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I be off, then?”

“Yes. Good luck, Captain.”

****

After Captain Finck left the tent, Mike turned toward Lt. Colonel Thorsten Engler. “When the time comes for us to cross the river, even if we have the element of surprise — and if we don’t we probably won’t try it at all — you can be sure and certain the Bavarians will throw every cavalry unit they have available at us. We’ll be depending on you to hold them off.”

Thorsten nodded. His flying artillery unit could be used against infantry — and had been, on several battlefields — but they were specifically designed to counter cavalry. They were not as mobile as a cavalry unit but had much greater firepower at their disposal.

They were useless against fortifications, however, which was their great drawback. Any infantry unit which had the time to build good fieldworks could drive them off as well.

“How wide is the Amper, General?” asked Leoš Hlavacek, the colonel in command of the Teutoberg Regiment.

Mike turned toward Tom Simpson, who’d come back the day before from a reconnaissance mission over the terrain between Ingolstadt and Freising. He’d taken the risk of having the Pelican fly no more than a hundred yards above the ground so he’d gotten a good view of everything. He’d particularly concentrated on the Amper, since that tributary of the Isar was the main geographical obstacle the Third Division was going to face in their march on Munich.

Tom made a waggling motion with his hand. “It varies. In a lot of places it’s not even a ‘river’ so much as it is a braided network of little streams.”

“How little?” asked Georg Derfflinger. He commanded the division’s 3rd Brigade and, at twenty-nine, was the youngest of the Third Division’s brigadiers. “If they’re narrow enough and shallow enough, we might be able to cross without having to put up a bridge. Maybe just a corduroy road to keep the men’s boots from getting soaked.”

Simpson looked skeptical. “It’s possible, but I wouldn’t count on it. I was up in the air, not down on the ground, so I can’t be sure. But from the way it looked, those places where the Amper divides into a network of streams are swamps. We could wind up getting mired down. I think we’d do better to cross someplace where there are solid banks we can anchor a bridge on. Keep in mind that’s a pretty small river. I didn’t see any place where it was wider than maybe ten yards.”

He started to add something and then closed his mouth. Mike suspected that Tom had been about to make a comment that might have struck the down-timers as American chauvinism. By Tom’s standards as well as Mike’s — any American’s — the rivers in Europe seemed pretty dinky. Mike hadn’t seen the Rhine yet, so he couldn’t judge if it lived up to its world-famous reputation. But neither the Elbe nor the Danube did, for North Americans accustomed to such rivers as the Mississippi, Missouri and Ohio, although Mike had been told that the Danube was a lot more impressive further east than he’d seen it.

In the United States he’d come from, a body of running water the size of the Amper would probably have been called a creek rather than a river. But Mike had enough military experience by now to understand that it didn’t take much of a body of running water — call it a river, a creek or whatever you chose — to pose a serious obstacle to an army more than ten thousand strong which was operating with the sort of equipment available in the early seventeenth century.

The march on Munich from Regensburg posed one major geographical problem for the Third Division. They could easily cross over to the Isar’s south bank somewhere between Dingolfing and Landshut, where the Bavarians had no sizeable forces to oppose them, and then follow the river all the way down to Munich.

The problem was that in the year 1636, Bavaria’s capital was a far cry from the metropolis it would eventually become. In the time period Mike had come from, Munich straddled the Isar. But today, the city was located entirely north of the river. So arriving at Munich on the south bank would do them no good at all. To be sure, the Isar was narrow enough that they could bombard the city’s walls from the south bank. But sooner or later, once a breach was made, they’d have to cross it — right in the face of the enemy, entrenched in the city’s fortifications.

No, they had to stay on the Isar’s north bank all the way down — but that posed the problem that they’d first have to cross the river’s main tributary, the Amper. Hopefully, Captain Finck and his men would find a good spot to do it. They needed someplace the Third Division could reach easily — while the Bavarians could be held at bay long enough — and which had solid enough footing and enough forest in the area — groves, at least — to build the bridges they’d need for the purpose.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 06

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 06

The Americans too wanted to use him, and as Father Johannes walked through the early morning streets of Cologne on his way to Claude Beauville’s Emporium of Fine Arts, he enjoyed the peace away from the constant hustle and bustle of the Hatzfeldt House, and thought about his talks with Don Francisco Nasi the previous autumn. The young head of the Abrabanel family’s financial network in Germany had also become the unofficial head of the Americans’ information network, and after Father Johannes had accepted Franz von Hatzfeldt’s offer of employment, Father Johannes had also agreed to pass along information about the situation in Cologne to Don Francisco. Not due to pressure or in return for money, but because Father Johannes shared Don Francisco’s belief in the benefits of the American influence.

Father Johannes stopped and looked at the new Mocha House; during his two years in Grantville, he had grown used to the American habit of drinking coffee in the morning, but this was still too early for the coffee shop to be open, and it was still the only one of its kind in Cologne.

The Americans had brought so many changes in so few years; from a new budding empire to the habit of drinking coffee. Still — fads and empires had always come and gone, what lasted was the ideas that grew from and in people’s minds — and the American had brought an unbelievable treasure of those. Father Johannes smiled a little bitterly as he continued his walk: officially Bishop Franz von Hatzfeldt had hired him to oversee the restoration of Hatzfeldt House, unofficially the bishop had wanted Father Johannes to tell him about the American ideas in return for a pardon for Father Johannes’ rebellion at Magdeburg, but privately Father Johannes was certain that the bishop’s ultimate goal was to get his diocese back, and never mind the cost. That Father Johannes had a private line to negotiations with the USE, might eventually be of more value to the bishop than anything else. And in the mean time Father Johannes had no qualms at all about keeping Don Francisco informed about Archbishop Ferdinand’s intrigues. Ruthlessness was expected of a man of power, but the uses the Archbishop had made of his personal torturer, Felix Gruyard had gone way beyond what was acceptable.

* * *

Claude Beauville’s office was fully lit when Father Johannes arrived. The Beauvilles had once been an important family in Toulouse in Southern France, but the collapse in the woad dye trade had brought the family to near ruin. Monsieur Claude had since done quite well for himself by trading in all kinds of dyes as well as paints, paper and fine textiles, and his new emporium occupied an entire house in the center of Cologne. Father Johannes had bought a lot from him during his years with the Catholic army, and now, since Father Johannes had started working on Hatzfeldt House, he had gone to the emporium at least once a week to use the Beauville family’s many contacts to acquire the materials he needed — and even to order a few of the exiting new colors from the Americans. The business didn’t usually open this early, but the night before a note had arrived at Hatzfeldt House: the American cargo had arrived under the aegis of Herr Moses Abrabanel, and if the honored Father Johannes would come as early after dawn as convenient, he would be given first choice among the many fine marvels.

So Father Johannes had risen before dawn, and as he stood admiring the new smooth glass in the windows shining in the first rays of the morning sun, he considered exactly what to say to Moses Abrabanel. The general situation was well known: most of the dioceses in the Rhine Valley — also called Bishops Alley — had been conquered by the Swedes in 1631, and most of the exiled bishops were now in Bonn planning heaven-knows-what with Archbishop Ferdinand. Prince-Abbot Schweinsberg of Fulda had defected — made a deal with the USE — and was back in Fulda, but with little of his former power and riches. And Archbishop Ferdinand’s fury at the defection made it totally clear that Schweinsberg had burned all his bridges behind him.

During his meals with his sister Lucie, Maxie and Father Johannes, Bishop Franz had talked freely about his fellow refugees and about his host in Bonn. The bishop of Trier had quarreled with Archbishop Ferdinand and left, so the most important clerics remaining were Archbishop Anselm of Mainz and Maxie’s brother, Bishop Franz Wilhelm of Minden. According to Bishop Franz, his old friend Franz Wilhelm seemed to be patiently waiting for something, but Archbishop Anselm was visibly chafing under the patronizing charity of Archbishop Ferdinand. None of this was really secret, and could readily be picked up among the gossip at The Mocha House, but at least Father Johannes could send confirmations of those rumors back to Don Francisco. And perhaps Archbishop Anselm of Mainz was ready for an approach from the USE.

In the end, though, it really all depended on the most powerful cleric in the area; what was Archbishop Ferdinand of Cologne going to do? A treaty between him and the USE could mean peace along almost the entire western front of the USE, greatly strengthening the chances for at least an armistice with the Spanish occupation in Holland, hinder the French in stirring up trouble, and generally add greatly to the USE’s security. For the Archbishop it would be a chance to save what he could before he was negotiating with a knife on his throat. Or at least with a USE army coming down the Rhine from Frankfurt.

On the other hand the archbishop was a member of the strongly Catholic and ambitious ducal family of Bavaria, so was he instead planning to re-conquer the lost dioceses? The French agents had been sniffing around all spring, and according to Bishop Franz the newly arrived dragoons at Bonn had been paid for with French money. Officially the dragoons were a warning to Wolfgang von Neuburg, Duke of Jülich-Berg, never the safest of neighbors, but considering Duke Maximilian of Bavaria’s upcoming marriage to a Habsburg princess, the Holy Roman Empire might also get behind an attempt to push the USE away from the Rhine — with Richelieu stirring up troubles on the sideline.

No one expected Father Johannes to actually spy to discover military plans — not least because the archbishop lived in Bonn and Father Johannes was in Cologne — but Bishop Franz had come from Bonn to watch the progress Father Johannes was making on the house. And incidentally to delivered to Father Johannes the promised full pardon for his “momentary loss of reason” at Magdeburg. In return Father Johannes had answered as many questions about the Americans as the bishop had cared to ask.

Father Johannes sat down on the horse-plinth outside the entrance to the emporium’s office to consider a point: what Bishop Franz had really been interested in was, what kind of people had gained power — and how — in the American’s home world. In fact the only here-and-now political or military subject the bishop had asked about had been Fulda and the American team there. Why no questions about Würzburg, the bishop’s own diocese? The Americans were there too.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 24

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 24

She stopped and waited for what she expected to be a royal outburst. Gustav Adolf had quite a famous temper, when he unleashed it.

And, indeed, the emperor was glaring at her. His big hands gripped the ends of the armrests, the knuckles standing out prominently.

To her surprise, he took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. Then, still more to her surprise, he got a peculiar expression. It was almost…

Foxlike? Yes — insofar as the term was not absurd, applied to such a heavy face.

“I will agree on one condition,” he said abruptly.

“Yes?”

“If you win the election and become the governor of Saxony — or whatever term you choose for the post — we will face the awkward situation of having the chief of state of a province with an established church who does not belong to that church — in fact, belongs to no church at all.”

His expression now became self-righteous; so much so that Gretchen suspected he was putting on an act. “That’s quite unacceptable! So my condition is this — you must cease this unseemly quasi-agnosticism and join a church. The Lutheran church would be ideal, of course. But I will settle for any other –”

She interrupted, trying her best not to seem too foxlike herself. “But — Your Majesty! — as you perhaps may not know, I was raised — ”

“Except the Catholic church!” he boomed. “I’ve got too many blasted Catholics in the USE as it is!”

He leaned back in his chair. “That is the condition, Gretchen. Pick a Protestant church — and not one that is too disreputable, like the Anabaptists. A Reformed church is acceptable. We have that already in Hesse-Kassel and Brandenburg.”

She considered outright rebellion, but…

It was not an outrageous condition, given what the emperor was prepared to allow in exchange. And, besides, did it really matter that much any more?

Well…

Yes. Some stubborn root at the very heart of Gretchen Richter was choking on the idea. Not because she cared about doctrinal issues — which she never had, even when she’d been a young Catholic girl — but simply because she was being forced.

She was about to refuse when a very foxlike thought came to her. What if…?

Yes. That would do.

“Very well,” she said. “I accept. But I will need a bit of time to make my choice.”

Gustav Adolf waved his hand expansively, magnanimously. “By all means! So long as you have made your choice before you take office.”

He rose to his feet. “That assumes, of course, that you win the election. Which I most certainly hope you do not, since you are a notorious agitator and the fellow running against you, Ernst Wettin, is a far more sensible sort.”

He was smiling when he said it, though.

****

She spent that evening giving a full report to a large assemblage in Rebecca Abrabanel’s town house. Several of Magdeburg’s CoC leaders were present along with the people from the Fourth of July Party.

The idea she was considering with respect to the church she’d wind up joining herself, however, she discussed with no one except Rebecca.

Who thought the idea was both charming and shrewd. As she put it: “It’s a way to goose the emperor without his being able to take umbrage.”

She then had to explain the bizarre way Americans had turned a goose into a verb.

****

The next morning, Eddie Junker showed up at the townhouse.

“Where are we flying to now?” he asked. “Back to Dresden?”

“Later. First we go to Grantville.”

****

Once they were in the air, heading south, Eddie asked Gretchen: “How long will you be in Grantville?”

She didn’t answer immediately because they’d encountered some turbulence. Her left hand was clutching the side of her seat. Her right hand had been clutching the door handle but she’d snatched it away when she realized that if she had a sudden spasm caused by — whatever — she might inadvertently fling open the door — never mind that the wind pressure would be working entirely against that possibility — and then fling herself out of the airplane for no good reason known to man, God or beast.

All her knuckles were bone white. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes were wide but fixed straight ahead as if she were gazing into the maw of hell.

“Oh, relax,” said Eddie. “Turbulence in the air is nothing to worry about. Look at it this way. If you were on a ship at sea you’d expect to be riding up and down with the waves, wouldn’t you? In fact, if you weren’t you’d be in trouble.”

He waved a hand, indicating the atmosphere through which they were flying. “That’s all this is, too. We’re just riding waves in the air instead of in water. It only seems dangerous because you can’t see these waves.”

“It’s not the same at all,” Gretchen said, through still-clenched teeth. “If a boat comes apart and drops me into the water, I know how to swim. If this airplane falls apart and drops me into the air, I don’t know how to fly.”

****

After the turbulence had died down and Gretchen had relaxed a bit, Eddie repeated the question.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“An hour? Two hours? A day? Two days? A week?”

“At least a day. Maybe two. I don’t think it should be longer than that.”

Eddie nodded. “Fine. I need to fly Noelle and Janos Drugeth from Vienna to Prague as soon as possible. I got the message from the radio operator at the Magdeburg airfield just before we left. So after I drop you off in Grantville, I’ll take care of that business before I return. It shouldn’t take more than a day.”

Gretchen said nothing. They’d run into turbulence again.

Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia

The door was opened by a woman whom Gretchen knew to be in her early eighties but who didn’t look it to her down-time eyes. Gretchen’s grandmother Veronica was only sixty-one, which many Americans still considered to be “middle-aged,” but she looked older than the woman standing in the doorway.

They’d encountered each other any number of times when Gretchen was living in Grantville after her marriage to Jeff, but she couldn’t recall that they’d ever spoken directly. As always, Gretchen was struck by the old woman’s hair. Snow-white but still full, and extremely curly. It was not hard to understand why she’d been the inspiration for Ewegenia, symbol of the Franconian League of Women Voters during the Ram Rebellion.

“Veleda Riddle?” she asked by way of a formal greeting. “I am Gretchen –”

“I know who you are, dear.” Veleda smiled. “The whole world probably does — well, Europe, anyway — at least by reputation.”

Holding the door open, she moved aside and gestured for Gretchen to enter.

“Come in. Would you care for some coffee? Tea? Broth?”

Gretchen was about to refuse politely when she realized she actually did have a desire — a craving, more like — for a cup of coffee. Her nerves were still a little unsettled from the flight.

And if anyone in Grantville was likely to have good coffee, it would be Veleda Riddle. She was one of the handful of “grand old ladies” among the up-timers. Her son, Chuck Riddle, was the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the State of Thuringia-Franconia and while she was now a widow, her husband had been one of Grantville’s few practicing lawyers and had made a better living than most residents of the town before the Ring of Fire.

“Yes, please. Some coffee would be nice.”

After she’d taken a seat in the living room and Veleda returned from preparing the coffee in the kitchen, Gretchen said: “I was sorry to hear of the recent passing of your husband, Mrs. Riddle.”

Veleda handed her a cup of coffee and sat down on the couch positioned at a ninety-degree angle from Gretchen. She had a cup for herself, from which she took a sip before responding.

“I miss him, I surely do. But we all have to pass someday and Tom made it to eighty-four before he died.” She smiled, in fond reminiscence. “On his eightieth birthday I remember him telling me, ‘Okay, hon, I made it as far as anyone can ask from the Lord. I figure whatever’s left is gravy.'”

She took another sip of coffee and set the cup down on the aptly-named coffee table.

“And now, what can I do for you, Gretchen Richter?”

****

Once Gretchen had explained the purpose of her visit, Veleda drained her cup of coffee.

“Oh, my,” she said, cradling the cup in her lap.

She stared out the window for a time.

“Oh, my,” she said again.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 05

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 05

“The record for Gruyard’s expenses included a very large fee to van Beekx, and your cousin signed personally for full payment. Paul later managed to escape somehow and disappear.” Father Johannes looked up on the picture too. “I didn’t do or say anything at the time. Closed my eyes and told myself I could do nothing. None is so blind as him who will not see.” He looked back at Sister Maximiliane. “My stay with the Americans taught me that there is so much — even in the mortal world — that I’ll never understand. That all a man can do is to put his faith in God, and try to do what is right. I want to find my friend and help him if I can. Bishop Franz might be planning to double-cross your cousin. Or they may be up to something together. I don’t particularly care. The Madonna on your wall is painted by Paul, the greenish blue of the sky is a shade Paul was developing when I last met him, and the motive is Catholic. It is recent, but it is not something a Calvinist like Paul would ever willingly have painted.”

“It was a gift from my cousin.” Sister Maximiliane sighed. “Ferdinand was very ill last winter. With stomach pain and vomiting blood. Gruyard tried to convince him it was poison. My life in Münich had soured on me, so I came to nurse my cousin, and a diet of very bland food solved the problem. I had admired the picture and he gave it to me as thanks, but …” Sister Maximiliane stopped and frowned at Father Johannes. “The picture was hanging in my cousin’s bedroom in Bonn — so that he could see it from the bed. At night when the pain was especially bad, he told me to take it down and remove it from the room. Shouted at me when I wanted to wait for the morning. I took it down myself, and when he was well, he told me to keep it. I fear your story is true, Father Johannes.” She looked up at the painting again. “You need not fear I’ll tell anyone of this, but please let me think now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

* * *

The next morning Sister Maximiliane came into Father Johannes’ major workroom with the painting of the Heavenly Madonna in her hands. The room would eventually become the biggest parlor in the house, but on this bright spring morning it was filled with craftsmen and work-tables loaded with paint and fabrics.

“Good Morning, Father Johannes. Could you find the time to examine this picture for me? I wonder if the wood is beginning to crack. Just store it until you can find the time.”

“Good Morning, Sister Maximiliane, I promise mine shall be the only hands to touch it.” Father Johannes bowed and took the picture.

“Thank you. Just take your time. I think I’ll find something else for my bedroom, as I find I no longer like it as much.” Sister Maximiliane nodded her thanks; she looked tired, but no emotions showed in her stern face. “Bishop Franz is expected to arrive from Bonn any day now. I would like to examine his rooms.”

“Certainly, Sister Maximiliane, the bishop’s bedroom and study were finished as the very first rooms. Only the new carpets have not yet arrived.”

In the study Sister Maximiliane sat down behind the carved oak table and looked at Father Johannes. “When Franz arrives I’ll find out if he knows anything about what happened to Paul Moreau. I’ll also write to Cousin Ferdinand in Bonn for any information he has about the painting and the painter. I’ll pretend I worry about the wood it’s painted on being faulty. There’s no reason for him not to help me. But just what did the interrogation protocol tell about your friend? Any indication he was hurt enough to die?”

“No, and I found some private correspondence as well. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Gruyard must have kept — probably stolen — letters. Letters with potential for blackmail.” Father Johannes moved restlessly around the room. “Paul survived for at least four months after the interrogation. Archbishop Ferdinand had ordered him moved to Bavaria. Paul was to travel up the Rhine and then over land with a troop of mercenaries going to Würzburg. From there Bishop Franz would arrange the rest of the transportation. But the troop of mercenaries was scattered by a Protestant attack near Aschaffenburg, and when they reached Würzburg their leader, Captain Eltz, claimed that Paul was nowhere to be found after the attack. Paul might have managed to escape, but Eltz is a distant cousin of the Hatzfeldts, and used to serve in the army under Bishop Franz’s brother, General Melchior von Hatzfeldt. Eltz had been hired by Bishop Franz to strengthen the defenses at Würzburg against the approaching Swedes. I don’t think your cousin — or Gruyard — know where Paul is, but I think Bishop Franz might know something.”

“Franz´s archives are here in Cologne. Both his personal files and what he managed to save from Würzburg. They are stored in the muniment room together with the archives from Fulda.”

“Huh! I’ve seen the sealed crates, but why are Fulda’s archives here?”

“The Fulda monks, who brought the archives — and the abbey’s treasure — with them when they fled here from the Swedes, find that they cannot agree on what to do with them. Prince-Abbot Schweinsberg of Fulda has made a deal with the Americans, and while my cousin might not have the power to excommunicate Schweinsberg, he is not obliged to help him either. Cousin Ferdinand has always disliked Schweinsberg, it’s an old quarrel, so …” Sister Maximiliane shrugged and smiled wryly at Father Johannes. “The monks have kept the treasure among themselves, but most of them are noble-born and probably think archives are for clerks. Franz’s sister, Lucie, has just become a widow and is coming here to stay. Like me, she is very good at administration, and I think I’ll suggest that she and I sort all those Würzburg and Fulda crates this summer. We are very good friends and while she would not betray her brother’s trust, she’d certainly be willing to help me by noting anything in connection with your friend Paul.”

“Lady, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

“I want my Madonna back on my wall, Father Johannes, but I find I cannot enjoy it now. Perhaps I’ll be able to do so again, when your friend has been found.”

“If not, I swear I’ll paint you another, Sister Maximiliane, to the very best of my abilities.”

“Thank you. I might want to accept that. And please call me Maxie. ”

* * *

A very talented painter, as well as a Jesuit priest, Father Johannes Grunwald had come to Grantville while fleeing from the inquisition after the atrocities at Magdeburg had made him rebel against his superior’s “Holy War” campaign. He had settled down among the Americans as a teacher and painter, while waiting to see what his church would do about one of their most important propaganda painters thus running off — and while making some adjustments in his own faith and beliefs.

His faith and trust in his God had been the first to heal, and the quiet stability of Father Mazzare had shown him that it was perfectly possible for a Catholic priest to be both a human with mundane interests and joys, and yet still be deeply religious and virtuous. However, in one area Father Johannes had not been able to take Father Mazzare for a role-model: Father Johannes’ abilities as a painter made him an important tool — and weapon — for the princes striving for power — both inside and outside the church. Of course, as a Jesuit priest, obedience to his superior should have been of primary importance to him, and he should just be doing what they told him to, but Magdeburg had taught him never, ever to place his talent under the control of anybody else.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 23

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 23

Chapter 11

Royal Palace

Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe

This time, when Gretchen was ushered into the presence of the emperor, two things were different. The chamber was much smaller, almost intimate in its dimensions, albeit as lavishly furnished as you’d expect in a royal palace. And they were quite alone. There were not even any servants in the room; just a small bell resting on a side table next to Gustav Adolf’s chair with which he could summon one if desired.

To Gretchen’s surprise, the emperor rose to greet her when she came into the chamber. She was no connoisseur of imperial protocol, but she was quite sure that was unusual. Don Fernando — even when he had simply been the Cardinal-Infante, not the King in the Netherlands — had never risen to greet her when she came into his presence. Neither had his wife Maria Anna, nor the Archduchess Isabella, nor Fredrik Hendrik, the Prince of Orange.

Gustav Adolf was smiling a bit ruefully when he resumed his seat. “I am training myself, you see. Well… being honest, I am letting my daughter’s governess train me. That’s the up-timer, Caroline Platzer. Have you met her?”

Gretchen shook her head. “Not so far as I can recall.”

“She is what they call a ‘social worker.'”

Gretchen tried to make sense of the term. “She works at… managing social affairs?”

“Not exactly. The way Caroline describes the profession herself — I assure you the crudity is hers, not mine! — is that social workers are the grease that helps a society’s axles turn more easily.” He shrugged. “I’d think she was at least half-mad except that she can work magic with my daughter where no one else has ever been able to. The princess’ ladies-in-waiting are well-nigh hysterical over Caroline’s methods, but… they work. And none of their methods ever did anything but make my intelligent and headstrong daughter a veritable terror.”

The emperor turned his head a bit to the side, in order to give Gretchen a sideways look. “Are you aware of Kristina’s history — her future history, I mean, as recorded in the American books?”

“Yes, in broad outline. She succeeded you, it did not go well, and eventually she abdicated, converted to Catholicism and went to live in Rome.” Gretchen tried to keep a smile from showing, but failed. “There was this, too. Apparently her headstrong manner never changed. There’s a story in one of those books — so I’m told; I did not read it myself — that when the guests at a celebration she held in her villa in Rome refused to leave when ordered –”

“Ha!” Gustav Adolf clapped his big hands on his knees. “Yes, I read it! She ordered her household guards to fire on the unruly lot. Slew several of them, before the rest obeyed and left.”

He chuckled softly, and shook his head. It was an oddly fond gesture, given that it was that of a father reminiscing — using the term very, very crookedly — on his daughter’s murderous temper. “Caroline is good for her. And so is her betrothed, Prince Ulrik. I am very much in favor of that.”

Again, he gave her that sideways look. “Are you?”

Gretchen hadn’t been expecting that question. Her initial reaction was to issue some sort of meaningless inanity — of course I am in favor of anything that puts the princess at ease, that sort of twaddle — but she decided that would be a mistake. Instead, she took a few seconds — more like ten — to really think on the matter.

“Yes,” she said finally. “When we — by ‘we’ I mean the Committees of Correspondence — decided to welcome Kristina and Prince Ulrik when they came to Magdeburg during the Dresden Crisis, we understood what it meant. For all intents and purposes, the CoCs were giving their consent to the United States of Europe’s remaining a monarchy. I was in Dresden myself and did not participate in the discussion, but I agreed with the decision.”

She took a slow, deep breath. “That decision is now essentially irrevocable, given that Your Majesty has lived up to your end of the… what to call it?”

“I rather like Ernst Wettin’s term. Modus vivendi. And you’re quite right. The CoCs, at least tacitly, have agreed that the USE will remain a monarchy. And the monarch in question” — he poked his chest with a thumb — “has agreed — also tacitly! nothing has been admitted openly! — that the imperial rule will be bound and circumscribed by constitutional principles.”

He now bestowed an outright grin on her — and quite a cheerful one. “Of course, that leaves both of us with plenty of room — everyone else, too! the FOJs, the Crown Loyalists, the reactionaries, oh, everyone — in which to maneuver and bargain and quarrel.”

He planted his hands on his knees again. “So. Which will we be doing today, Gretchen? Bargaining or quarreling?”

“Bargaining, I hope.”

He extended an open hand, with the palm turned up. The gesture invited her to lay out her proposals.

She took another deep breath, but not a slow one. She was determined to do this straightforwardly and firmly.

“First, I agree to run for the top executive position in Saxony. We will be advocating a parliamentary republican structure for the province, I should add.”

The emperor nodded. “In that case, you will need to be representing a specific political party. That would be…”

“I joined the Fourth of July Party this morning. I was — well, there’s no actual ‘swearing in’ — accepted in the presence of Rebecca Abrabanel, Ed Piazza and Matthias Strigel.”

“As authoritative a group as anyone could ask for.” Gustav Adolf shifted his hands from his knees to the armrests of his chair and looked to the side for a moment. “You are being wise, I think. Please go on.”

“Second, on the issue of citizenship. Since the coup attempt by Chancellor Oxenstierna failed and the assembly in Berlin has been declared — by you yourself — as having no legal authority, the provisional citizenship standards established by Prime Minister Stearns remain in place. Those will be the standards that apply in the special elections in Saxony, Mecklenburg, Württemberg and the Oberpfalz.”

She paused, cocking an eye at the emperor to see if he wanted to argue the point. But all Gustav Adolf did was nod his head and make another little gesture with his hand. Not a problem, please go on.

Now, they came to what she was almost certain was going to be the proverbial bone of contention.

“On the issue of the established church. We propose the following. The Oberpfalz — assuming the populace agrees, of course — will have full freedom of religion. Complete separation of church and state.”

Again, she paused, and looked at the emperor.

“Agreed,” he said. Then, making a face: “I don’t care for it, but the Oberpfalz has been such a mess for so long due to cuius regio, eius religio — one ruler after another changing the region’s official denomination — that trying to establish a church now is probably hopeless. Please continue.”

“Mecklenburg and Württemberg” — she had to keep her lips from tightening here — “will have Lutheranism as the established church.”

Gustav Adolf’s eyes widened a bit. She didn’t think he’d foreseen that concession from the Committees of Correspondence. Then, of course, his eyes narrowed considerably. In negotiations of this sort, what one hand gives the other will promptly try to take back.

“And Saxony?” he asked.

She sat up a bit straighter. “We propose a compromise. What you might call a semi-established church. Lutheranism will be recognized as the province’s official church and will therefore be entitled to financial support from the provincial government. But all other religions — that includes Judaism as well as all varieties of Christianity — will not be penalized in any way.”

The emperor’s eyes were now fairly close to being outright slits. “I fail to see the point. We have already banned all forms of religious persecution anywhere in the United States of Europe.”

Gretchen had grown so relaxed in the presence of Gustav Adolf that she had to restrain herself from snapping: don’t play the fool! As if she were arguing with one of her own comrades.

Which the emperor, as cordial as he might be, was decidedly not.

“Your Majesty, I’m not simply speaking of persecution as such. There are other ways in which non-official denominations can be penalized. In Hesse-Kassel and Pomerania, for instance, only the established churches can have churches on the street. Other Protestant denominations have to maintain their churches inside courtyards, with no visible sign of their existence. And Catholics and Jews are required to maintain their places of worship on the upper floors, not on the street level. We want none of that in Saxony. The Lutherans can have their tax support. But that is all. That is the only additional benefit they would enjoy.”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 22

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 22

Gretchen was paying close attention, now. She’d had so many clashes with Gunther over the past year that she’d half-forgotten how shrewd the man could be. There was a reason he was the undisputed leader of the largest CoC in the world, located in the heart of the powerful new nation which the CoCs had played an important role in creating.

“I’m not quite following you, Gunther,” said Eduard Gottschalk.

Achterhof frowned. The expression was not one of irritation but simply concentration. The sort of half-scowl a man gets on his face when he is trying to figure out how to explain something for the first time.

“Let me use the Schardius and Burckardt case to make my point,” he said. “We almost intervened directly, especially after that terrible killing when the steam crane blew up.”

Gretchen had heard about that incident. A horrible accident on a construction site. Dozens of men had been killed. But she hadn’t realized it was connected to a murder investigation.

“But we didn’t.” He looked around the table. They were meeting in the kitchen of one of the apartments in the building that Gretchen and her husband had purchased with the money they’d gained — completely to their surprise — by David Bartley’s speculations on their behalf in the stock market. The apartment building doubled as the informal headquarters of the capital’s Committee of Correspondence.

“Why?” he continued. “We were certainly tempted. But we had enough sense to realize that if we pushed the police aside to handle it ourselves there’d never be an end to it. And did we really want to be a police force? Spending half our time and energy — not to mention funds — investigating robberies and such that had no political importance whatsoever.”

He leaned back in his chair. “No. We helped the police when they asked for it but we let them handle it. And that’s the lesson, comrades. We can either be a political movement or an official government body but if we try to be both at the same time we’ll do neither well and we’ll lose our effectiveness.”

He let that sink in, for a moment. Gretchen, who had been uncertain herself as to the course of action they should pursue in Saxony, found his arguments persuasive.

Galiena spoke up again. “But if we agree to have Gretchen run for office…” Her troubled expression suddenly cleared up. “Ah. I see. She does not run as a representative of the Committee of Correspondence in Saxony. She simply runs as — as…”

Her voice trailed off. “As what, exactly? Just herself?”

“That depends on what sort of republican system we want,” said Gottschalk. “Parliamentary or presidential — or perhaps I should say, gubernatorial. If we want Saxony to have a gubernatorial system, Gretchen can run just as herself, as an individual candidate for the office of governor.”

Before he’d even finished, every head around the table — including Gretchen’s — was being shaken.

“No, no, we don’t want that,” said Hubert Amsel. “We want a parliamentary system. It’s more democratic.”

Gretchen had the same reaction, although she knew both her husband and most other Americans would have been puzzled by it. The up-timers, as a rule — Mike Stearns was one of the few exceptions — tended to prefer presidential systems since it was what they had been accustomed to. Because they had so much influence in the region, the State of Thuringia-Franconia had adopted a presidential structure, as had the New United States which preceded it.

But most down-timers, at least those drawn to the CoCs, felt differently about the matter. To them, a “president” and a “governor” were hard to distinguish from a king and a duke. Granted, the posts were elective, not hereditary — but the same was true of any number of institutions which reeked of their medieval origins. The Holy Roman Emperor had been elected, too. That didn’t make him any less of a tyrant, did it?

So, everyone at the table shared Amsel’s attitude — but Gretchen was by no means the only one who saw the immediate problem.

“If it’s a parliamentary system, then Gretchen has to run as part of a party,” said Galiena. “Which party? Or are we going to turn ourselves into one?”

“No!” exclaimed Gunther, barely beating out the “nos!” coming from Gretchen herself and Eduard Gottschalk. “Mixing up our movement with a party would be almost as bad a mistake as mixing ourselves up with a government body.”

That was Gretchen’s assessment also. She glanced around the room and saw that there was clearly general agreement on this point.

That left simply…

“There are two choices,” she said. “And only two, practically speaking. I either join the Fourth of July Party and run as one of its members, or we create an entirely new party.”

Amsel shook his head. “Which would simply be the Committees of Correspondence wearing a disguise everyone would see through immediately. No, I think the only practical choice is for Gretchen to join the FOJs.” He pronounced the name as spelled-out letters — F, O, J — not as an acronym.

Gretchen almost laughed, seeing the slight moues of distaste on everyone’s mouths. She was pretty sure her own lips were pursed in the same manner.

Why? There was really no clear reason. Doctrinally speaking, the FoJ Party and the CoCs were very close on almost all important matters. But that still left a definite if hard-to-specify distinction between the two.

Her husband Jeff Higgins had once expressed it with an Americanism: Over here, we have the student council advocating all the right things. Over there, we have the roughnecks in their black leather jackets with cigarettes dangling from their lips agreeing with almost everything the student council says but sneering that they’re a bunch of wimps and goody two-shoes.

That was a silly way of putting it, but… there was some truth to the witticism.

“I’ll join the Fourth of July Party tomorrow,” she announced. “I’m meeting with Rebecca Abrabanel before my audience with the emperor so I’ll do it then.”

She paused, looking around the table to see if anyone had any objection. Seeing none, she moved to the next item on the agenda.

“We can be certain that Gustav Adolf is going to raise the issue of an established church — not just in Saxony but in Württemberg and Mecklenburg also.”

“Not in the Oberpfalz?” asked Galiena.

“It’s possible, but I doubt it. What should our stance be?”

“No compromise!” said Gunther forcefully. “We insist on freedom of religion in all republican provinces!”

It was oddly relaxing, Gretchen found, to have Achterhof back in his normal role.

“I disagree,” she said. “Here are my reasons…”

****

After the meeting was over, she waited in the courtyard to speak to Spartacus.

“You never said a word in the meeting, Joachim — not one. Why?”

Joachim von Thierbach — who used the public identity of “Spartacus” as his non-de-plume — shook his head. “I’m considered the intellectual in this bunch. The ‘theoretician,’ they call me, when they agree with something I say. But they’re always a bit suspicious of me, at least here in the capital.”

Gretchen chuckled. It was a very dry sound. “Yes, I know. The Magdeburg CoC takes its cue from Gunther and he’s… how to put it? If he were a pastor, the Americans would call him a fundamentalist.”

Von Thierbach’s chuckle had more real humor in it. “Of what they call the ‘fire and brimstone’ persuasion!” He shrugged. “I thought it was important that they come to the conclusion they did on their own. And then when Gunther agreed with your proposal — right away; I was quite startled! — I saw no purpose in my adding anything.”

Gretchen nodded. “So you agree, then? Yes, I know you voted in favor, but I want to be sure the vote wasn’t a grudging one.”

“It wasn’t at all.” He paused for a moment and looked aside, at nothing in particular, just as a way of collecting his thoughts.

“Please keep this confidential, but Rebecca Abrabanel has asked me to read her manuscript as she’s been preparing it, in order to provide her with my reactions. In effect, she’s using me as a sounding board for the CoCs as a whole.”

“Yes? And what do you think?”

“Have you read Alessandro Scaglia’s Political Methods and the Laws of Nations?”

Feeling a bit guilty, Gretchen shook her head. “No, not yet. I own it, but…” She made a vague gesture indicating the many tasks and burdens she had on her shoulders — which, in fact, she did.

“Take the time to read it, Gretchen. In essence, Rebecca’s book is a response to Scaglia. Some of her argument is polemical in nature but much of it is agreeable to Scaglia’s main premise — which I would summarize as his advocacy of reaching the same end point that existed in the Americans’ universe but doing it without the chaos and destruction of a series of violent revolutions.”

Gretchen made a face. “A fine sentiment — but try getting Europe’s kings and noblemen to agree.”

“Exactly Rebecca’s point. You might say that where Scaglia argues for a long, slow glide to what he calls ‘the soft landing,’ Rebecca believes that so-called ‘glide’ will never land at all without a great deal of what she calls ‘encouragement from below.’

He chuckled again, with unmistakable humor this time. “They’re both calling for the same end result — well, more or less — but they differ rather drastically on the proper pace and the mix of political forces required. To get back to the point, though, one of the things Rebecca stresses is the need for the representatives of the lower classes to get their hands directly on the levers of power. Being a ‘movement’ is fine. It’s always where it starts. But in the end, the goal is to move society. Not just call for doing so. Not just demand that it be done. Do it.”

He made a little bow. When his head came back up he was grinning. “So. Since you don’t like ‘president’ or ‘governor,’ what title would you prefer? How about ‘dominatrix’?”

“Very funny. I was thinking about ‘chancellor,’ maybe.”

“Oh, that’s so — so — what the up-timers call ‘white bread.'”

“I like white bread.”

“Sure. Everybody does. How about ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’?”

“Enough!”

“See? It’s the perfect title.”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 04

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 04

Chapter 2

Cologne, Hatzfeldt House

May, 1634

Hiding behind the curtains in a noble lady’s bedroom while she was undressing! Father Johannes bit his lip to keep back a totally inappropriate giggle. During his stay in Grantville he had read a few of the so called “Romances” the Americans had brought with them, and this was straight out of one of them. There were differences: he was not a young nobleman in trouble, but a middle-age priest and painter in trouble. And the lady in question was not a beautiful and willful young virgin, but a very competent spinster his own age. A very handsome spinster in Father Johannes’ opinion, but there really wasn’t that much similarity between the adorable Annabella of Love Conquers All and Sister Maximiliane, former Countess von Wartenberg.

Sister Maximiliane had come from Bavaria to Bonn the previous winter to nurse her cousin, Archbishop Ferdinand of Cologne, during an illness, and she had accepted an offer to stay and take charge of the Hatzfeldt household in Cologne, as the four Hatzfeldt brother’s feud with their step-mother, Margaretha von Backenfoerde, had left them with no one presently capable of the task. The house was an old and worn complex of buildings acquired from the Nassau family by the brothers’ father, Imperial Knight Sebastian von Hatzfeldt, and left in his will to his third son, Franz. It was a shabby residence for such a prominent family, but after Crottorf, the main castle of the Hatzfeldt family, had been invaded by the Swedes in 1631, causing the death of old Sebastian, it had been decided to shelter as many family members as possible behind the defenses of Cologne. Bishop Franz had for that — and other — reasons contacted Father Johannes in Grantville the previous autumn, and hired him to transform the old Nassauer Hof into something worthy of the name Hatzfeldt House.

At the moment only Sister Maximiliane and a few servants had arrived in Cologne, and all in all it should have been the best time for Father Johannes to do a bit of snooping around. Not that he wasn’t free to enter any room during the daytime, but what possible reason could he give for taking down a picture in Sister Maximiliane’s bedroom, and searching both front and back through a lens? Only — time had slipped away from him, and Sister Maximiliane had come back from Evening Mass before he’d had the time to get out. Now all he could do was to wait for the maid to leave and Sister Maximiliane to go to sleep.

“I wish thee would come forth.” Sister Maximiliane’s voice was sharp and firm.

But the maid had just left! She could not have seen him. He had not left open a hole to peek through. Or moved.

“It is thee behind the curtain I’m talking to. If I shall have to leave my bed to come pull thee forth, I shall be most annoyed.”

Father Johannes moved the curtain slightly to the side and saw Sister Maximiliane sitting in the bed staring straight at him.

“Well?”

“It’s only me, Sister Maximiliane.” Father Johannes took a few steps forward and bowed. “I most humbly apologize for intruding on your privacy, but assure you that I intend you neither harm nor disrespect.”

“Hmpf! Father Johannes.” Sister Maximiliane frowned. “I’m not in the habit of holding evening levees, but come sit on the bed and give me an explanation.”

Father Johannes sat as he was told. “I just wanted to study the painting on the wall. The Heavenly Madonna. I believe it’s by Paul Moreau. Do you know him?”

“You put it back upside down.”

“Oh!” Father Johannes half-rose to turn the picture.

“Never mind that. Just what are you up to with that young whipper-snapper Franz von Hatzfeldt?”

“Milady?”

“Father Johannes, Franz might be the Prince-Bishop of Würzburg these days, but I have known him all his life. He’s only seven years younger than I, a friend of my brother, Franz Wilhelm, and our families have known each other since before the Deluge. He’s up to something.” She shrugged. “So is just about everybody else these days, but in my estimate Franz would just about sell his soul to get his diocese back from the Protestant occupation. With the Americans being the blank shields in this cabal, and Franz hiring a painter straight from their town — not to mention giving you free-hands and an open purse — I would have to be dumb as a door not to suspect something. And no one has ever called me stupid, Father Johannes.”

“N-No, Milady. Quite the opposite. S-surely.” Father Johannes swallowed and tried to gather what was left of his wits. Sister Maximiliane was unsettling enough when being the formal grand lady, but once she dropped her formality, she was absolutely terrifying. He could either try to play dumb or confess everything, and hope for her kindness. And he really wasn’t that much of an actor. And Sister Maximiliane was better known for her competence than her kindness. “My commission from the p-prince-bishop is quite genuine; a written contract filed with the authorities here in Cologne, money for my payment as well as expenses deposed with the bankers. It’s a very generous agreement, but then I am well known within clerical circles. A-as a painter, I mean. ”

“Certainly. I cannot say I approve of all the uses you have made of your gifts, but I do not deny they are great. So, what is not in the files?”

Father Johannes swallowed nervously. “Everybody wants to know about the Americans, Milady. My patron just wants me to tell him about them. W-when he comes here to visit his family.”

“Father Johannes, no one is that ingenuous past the age of twenty. You are making me angry.”

This wasn’t working. “Sister Maximiliane, I’ll be putting my life in your hands.” Father Johannes dropped his cringe and looked Sister Maximiliane straight in the eyes.

“It is already there, Father Johannes.” Then Sister Maximiliane’s stern face eased in to a little smile, “but if it’s any consolation to you, I consider you far too talented a painter to waste.”

“Your cousin, Archbishop Ferdinand, felt the same way about my friend Paul Moreau. So after he faked the evidence for Paul’s trial, your cousin ordered his torturer to spare Paul’s hands and arms and concentrate on the lower part of his body. I do not find your words much of a consolation.” There was absolutely no answering smile on Father Johannes face.

Sister Maximiliane gaped, then pulled herself together. “Are you absolutely sure of this? My cousin is politically ruthless, that goes with being part of the ducal family of Bavaria, but this!” Sister Maximiliane took a deep breath. “To spare the hands of a talented painter would be a kindness. If the man was guilty, the evidence genuine…”

“Not a chance. Paul’s mother was a friend of my mother, and we have often studied and criticized each other’s paintings. Four or five years ago Paul was accused of painting votive pictures for the Black Mass. Three years ago I was in Bonn just before going to Magdeburg to paint the propaganda broad-sheets for that campaign. By accident I saw those evil pictures attributed to Paul. And he never painted those. I recognized the work of Alain van Beekx, a painter from Holland. Van Beekx is known to work for Felix Gruyard, your cousin’s torturer and executor.”

“I’ve met Gruyard.” Sister Maximiliane looked up at the Madonna painting. “You saw the protocol as well? No chance Gruyard acted on his own? Faked the evidence without my cousin’s knowledge?”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 21

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 21

Chapter 10

Vienna, capital of Austria-Hungary

“So we are in agreement, then?” Janos nodded toward Noelle. “She and I will serve as your envoys to –” He hesitated, but only for a second. However much Ferdinand might detest the necessity, Wallenstein’s new status now had to be formally acknowledged.

“To King Albrecht of Bohemia,” he continued. “I, as your official envoy to the Bohemian monarch; Noelle, as your unofficial envoy to elements in his court.”

That was a roundabout way of saying to the very rich American Jewish couple Morris and Judith Roth, who have a lot of influence over that bastard Wallenstein and — perhaps more to the point — largely determine the way Americans everywhere look on the bastard at the present time.

There was a valuable reminder there, if — no, when; the emperor was a very intelligent man when he wasn’t in a surly mood — Ferdinand had the sense to consider it. Whatever grievances he or Austria had against Wallenstein were miniscule compared to the grudge Americans could hold against him if they chose to do so. The bastard had once tried to slaughter all of their children, after all — yet the Americans had had the wisdom and forbearance to make peace with Wallenstein later, when the circumstances changed.

Ferdinand had been holding his breath long enough that his face was starting to turn red. Now, he exhaled mightily.

“Ah! I almost choke on the thought!”

Janos smiled. “If it eases your soul, Ferdinand, I will be glad to keep calling him Wallenstein when we’re speaking privately.”

“Please do.” The young emperor’s hands tightened on the armrest of his chair. “‘The bastard’ will do nicely, as well. So will –” He gave Noelle a somewhat wary glance.

She grinned at him. “The asshole, perhaps?” They were speaking in German, not Amideutsch, so the term she used was Das Arschloch. “Or perhaps I might introduce Your Majesty to one of our American expressions” — here she slipped into Amideutsch — “the dirty rotten motherfucker.”

Ferdinand burst into laughter. Like most members of the Habsburg dynasty he had an earthy sense of humor. That was something which often surprised Americans who’d never had personal contact with Habsburgs. They tended to view Europe’s premier dynasty as a pack of inbred and sickly hyper-aristocrats — as if such a feeble family could have dominated the continent’s politics for so many centuries, since Rudolf of Habsburg became Rudolf I, King of Germany, in 1273.

Janos was very pleased by the emperor’s reaction — and learning, yet again, that his American betrothed’s somewhat prim physical appearance disguised a spirit that was bold and decisive. This was a woman who had once slain a torturer who was threatening the life of her partner by shoving her pistol barrel under his jaw and blowing his brains out. She’d done that, not because she was bloodthirsty but because she was a terrible shot with any sort of firearm and hadn’t wanted to risk missing.

What had struck Janos the most, when she’d told him that story not long after they’d first met, was the incredible presence of mind that had taken — for anyone, much less a woman with little experience with violence. Drugeth knew many veteran soldiers who, placed in that same situation, would have blasted away wildly.

Of course, none of them would have been as terrible a marksman as Noelle. Her inability to hit anything more than two feet away with a pistol was quite remarkable.

After the emperor’s laughter died away, Ferdinand gave Noelle a very approving look and said: “I like that. So, yes, in private — just among the three of us — I’d enjoy calling Wallenstein the asshole or the motherfucker. Better still! The motherfucking asshole.”

He looked back at Janos. “Are you still sure it’s wise to fly to Prague?”

“The danger is minimal, Your Majesty,” Noelle said. “I’ve flown with Eddie a number of times. He’s a very good pilot and his plane is well-built and — by now — quite well tested. It even survived a crash in Dresden with no harm done to anyone.”

Ferdinand waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not concerned about the physical danger. I’m thinking of the diplomatic risk. Herr Junker is Francisco Nasi’s pilot, and while Don Francisco is not formally connected with the asshole’s court, he is — second only to Don Morris — the most prominent Jew in Prague. Which is the most prominent Jewish city in Europe. The world, for that matter. And everyone knows that the Jews and Wallenstein are closely allied.”

Noelle had a frown on her face. Ferdinand would see in that frown nothing more than thoughtful concern. By now, though, Janos knew her well enough to understand that the expression was disapproving as well. Like most Americans he’d met, she had firm opinions on what they called “anti-Semitism” and she was interpreting the emperor’s remarks as an expression of that attitude, at least in part.

And… At least in part, it probably was. Dealing with Noelle had forced Janos to consider his own attitude toward Judaism. Eventually, he’d concluded that some of his views of the religion and its practitioners were no better than unthinking prejudices. Leaving moral issues aside, Drugeth disapproved of prejudice of any kind for practical reasons. A prejudiced man was likely to behave stupidly.

He understood, however, something that Noelle didn’t. Her grasp of the complexities of European diplomacy was still largely that of a novice, at least at this royal level. What Ferdinand was really expressing was not a bias against Jews but a distaste for appearing dependent in any way on someone whom most people would perceive as a close ally of Wallenstein.

“I don’t think it’s really a problem, Ferdinand,” he said. “Or, if it is a problem, it’s one that speaks to our relationship to the USE. Regardless of who owns the airplane and who flies it, almost anyone in Europe who looks up and sees an airplane passing overhead immediately and automatically thinks: Americans. That is just as true of Bohemians as anyone else, and the fact that when the plane lands one of the disembarking passengers” — he nodded toward Noelle — “is an American will reinforce the impression.”

Noelle issued a peculiar sound, something of a cross between a choke and a laugh.

In response to the emperor’s quizzically cocked eyebrow, she said: “I don’t believe you’ve ever seen the airplane in question, Your Majesty.”

He shook his head. “In the sky, once — at least, I believe it was that particular aircraft. But not up close, no.”

“Well, you will soon, after Eddie gets done with his current shuttle diplomacy with the — ah — Saxons and Gustav Adolf.” Janos was amused to see the deft way she avoided mentioning the specific Saxon being shuttled about. For the emperor of Austria as for most members of the continent’s royalty, the name “Gretchen Richter” was what Noelle called a scandal and a hissing. Best to leave it unspoken in their presence.

“Anyway, when you do,” Noelle went on, “you’ll see that another American is very prominently portrayed on the plane itself. It’s what we call ‘nose art’ because the painting is placed somewhere on the nose of the aircraft. There’s often — usually, in fact — a title that goes with it.”

“Ah.” Ferdinand leaned forward in his chair. “There’s something here you find amusing. I can tell — I’m learning to interpret your expressions. You’ll make quite a good diplomat, by the way. So what is this portrait and this title?”

“The title is Steady Girl — that’s an expression that refers to a sort of betrothal — and the portrait is of Denise Beasley. She is one of my junior associates and Eddie Junker’s betrothed. Well… ‘steady girl,’ I suppose I should say. They’re not betrothed — yet — in the legal German sense of the term.”

The emperor’s head was slightly cocked, and he had a half-smile on his face. “You’re still not telling me everything. Why is this so amusing? Ah, I have it! This portrait is not what you’d call a formal one.”

“Uh… no.” Noelle fluttered her hands. “Nothing like — like… ah…”

Janos had never seen the aircraft up close himself, but he had enough sense of what Noelle was groping for to provide some assistance.

“Nothing like Titian’s Venus of Urbino or Cranach’s Judgment of Paris,” he provided.

“Oh, no, nothing like that! Just, ah… well. Denise is very beautiful and, ah… the American expression is ‘leggy’. We’d call the portrait an example of pin-up art. That refers to… ah…”

She was floundering again. Ferdinand smiled and made another dismissive gesture with his hand. “Never mind the details. What you’re saying, I take it, is that no Bohemian — or anyone else — who sees that plane landing at Prague’s airfield is going to associate the craft with an alliance between cunning Wallenstein and even more cunning Jews.”

“Ah… No. They won’t. Between me and the picture of Denise — mostly the portrait — they’ll be thinking ‘Americans.’ Well, Americanesses.”

Ferdinand leaned back, his expression now thoughtful. “That will be good enough, I think. I simply cannot afford to look as if I am in any way relying on Wallen — the motherfucking asshole — for anything.”

Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe

“I think you should do it,” said Gunther Achterhof. Seeing the look of surprise on Gretchen’s face, he smiled. Thinly, but it was a genuine smile.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “Shocking, to see Gunther Achterhof agree to something. But I’m just stubborn, I’m not stupid. I have understood for some time now that the situation we have in the nation is unstable and can’t last. If I had any doubts on the matter, the business with Schardius and Burckardt settled them.”

The names meant nothing to Gretchen, and her expression must have shown that. Galiena Kirsch, one of the other CoC leaders present in the room, leaned over and said: “You’d left for Dresden by then. It was a big murder case that caught the attention of the whole city. We almost got involved directly — and did, at the very end — but we mostly left it to the new police force to handle.”

“You can only be the informal power for so long,” Gunther went on. “If you push it too far, you wear out the public patience. People like stability and order, especially over an extended period of time.”

Most of the other CoC leaders were frowning. One of them — Hubert Amsel — spoke sharply. “What are you suggesting, Gunther? That we disband our organization?”

“No, of course not. What I’m saying is simply that we have to understand the limits within which we must operate. As a political movement, we continue to have a great deal of respect among our people and a very large following. But we now run the risk of seeing that erode if we try to extend our moral authority too far, if we try to assume the content of legal authority without accepting the form of it as well.”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 03

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 03

“The proposed province of Hesse-Kassel is quite a lot larger than Hessen was in the American world,” said Eleonore mildly, “and your husband is going to be its representative in the Chamber of Princes.”

“Larger, yes.” Amalie looked cross. “But mountainous and rural except for the north-western part of Mark, and Gustavus Adolphus might end up selling that to De Geer in Essen.”

“I see,” said Eleonore. “So, are you planning to expand all the way to the Rhine? The Rhine trade is valuable and likely to grow even more so.”

“Yes.” Amalie shrugged. “We would have preferred Essen, but Gustavus Adolphus apparently prefer De Geer to my husband, and expansion in that direction would be too costly, at least while De Geer is in power.”

“Any indications that De Geer is falling? I’ve got quite a lot of investments in Essen.” The abbess put down her cup.

“No. But the favors of princes are fickle — and that goes double for kings and triple for emperors. Wilhelm was once Gustavus’ most favored ally, now he is apparently to be reduced to just another provincial governor. Sooner or later De Geer’s star is bound to drop as well.”

“How about the Düsseldorf area?” Eleonore asked, “It was as important as Essen to the Americans. And while Duke Wolfgang’s second wife, Katharina Charlotte, is Gustavus’ cousin by marriage, Wolfgang has made himself so unpopular with absolutely everyone within the last few years, that I cannot imagine much opposition to taking him down. Especially since Wolfgang’s heir is by his Bavarian first wife.”

“Hesse mentioned the possibility in passing to Chancellor Oxenstierna after Brandenburg’s betrayal, and the answer was a clear refusal. Princess Katharina of Sweden is Gustavus’ favorite sister, and she is very fond of her niece and namesake. Unless Wolfgang does something very stupid, taking Berg from him is not an option. That Archbishop Ferdinand has sent his pet-torturer to talk to Wolfgang in secret seems promising, but I need more details. What do you know, Eleonore?”

“You’re going to owe me for this, Amalie.” Eleonore gazed sternly at her friend. “This information only arrived last night, and even the government hasn’t yet been told.”

“I see.” Amalie smiled. “From Moses Abrabanel, then. Well, I don’t want to go try to squeeze it out of him, so: debt accepted with the abbess as witness, for one political favor of your choice.”

“Archbishop Ferdinand has hired four regiments of cavalry with money received from Richelieu. It seems to be related to those French military movements south of Trier that been worrying the government lately.”

“And their target?” Amalie leaned forward.

“Unknown. But if some kind of a deal has been struck between Richelieu and Archbishop Ferdinand, then there is nothing capable of stopping a French army from striking north and taking Jülich from a base within the diocese.”

“How about Báner?” the abbess interrupted.

“He cannot move that far west unless it’s in response to an attack. The situation to the east and south is simply too unstable.” Amalie shook her head and tapped her fingernail on her teacup again.

“And with an alliance with Don Fernando in the Low Countries they would be able to take Rheinland Pfalz at their leisure and make everything west of the Rhine Catholic.” The abbess sighed. “Most of the USE regiments are already occupied far to the east and north. Any information about timing?”

“No. But Don Francisco Nasi put another interpretation on the news last night.” Eleonore leaned back, her stomach every bit as round as Amalie’s. “That Felix Gruyard has been visiting Wolfgang may suggest that there is an alliance there as well. And that puts the combined forces in position to attack Essen.”

“Yes. Or Hesse-Kassel.” Amalie suddenly looked very alert, and put down her cup hard enough to chip the saucer.

“No offence intended my dear,” the abbess smiled, “but Essen is actually the more valuable area.”

“Yes.” Amalie leaned back again and smiled at the abbess. “But not even Oxenstierna could blame us for defending our land against a Catholic conspiracy.”

Bonn, Archbishop’s Palace

“Ah! Please come in, Father Johannes. Did you have a pleasant journey here from Grantville?” Prince-Bishop Franz von Hatzfeldt of Würzburg rose from his desk, and greeted the tall ascetic looking priest with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yes, thank you. The roads have dried out nicely, and I even had the opportunity to ride the new railroad for a short stretch. A most comfortable way of travelling once you get used to the speed.” Father Johannes gave a quick look around the room, while sitting down on the chair his new patron indicated. Dark oak panels, dark oak furniture, dark and slightly shabby velvet upholstery, all in all a quite depressive room for a man in exile.

Father Johannes had met Bishop Franz while doing some paintings in Bamberg several years ago. At the time Franz von Hatzfeldt had been a diplomat in the service of the Prince-Bishop Johan Georg of Bamberg, and a full member of the Church administration in both Bamberg and Würzburg. Father Johannes remembered him as a calm and likeable man with a keen eye for beauty. Now, however, the man fiddling with his pen on the other side of the desk seemed filled with a kind of restless worry that made Father Johannes wondered if Francisco Nasi was right, and there was more going on in Cologne than a group of exiled clerics wanting their bishoprics back. Franz von Hatzfeldt had proved himself an excellent diplomat in negotiations with Tilly, and had slowly gained more and more influence until he was elected Bishop of Würzburg just a few months before the Protestant conquest of that diocese. Surely the loss of land and power should not mean that much of a setback to a competent diplomat with proven skills and contacts that would make anyone with ambitions want to hire him?

“I have the pardon signed by Archbishop Ferdinand for your behavior against your superiors after the sack of Magdeburg. As I believe my secretary Otto Tweimal explained to you: the pardon will officially be a part of your payment for your work on my family’s property in Cologne. The property is several old houses — all of which are worn and drab — so officially I’m hiring you to paint murals for the ladies, and advise on the restoration and decorations. I know of old that your taste is unerring.” Bishop Franz took a deep breath and forced another smile. “Unofficially I want you to tell me all that you can about the Americans and how they are likely to affect the political situation. You are not to mention the unofficial part of your duties to anyone without my permission. I’ll be coming to Cologne from time to time, to see my family and to follow your progress with the house.”

“Are you considering approaching somebody in Magdeburg about a wish to return to you bishopric?” Johannes asked. “I have no interest in politics, but I have heard mentions of people of importance in the new administrations. Even met a few during my stay in Grantville.”

Bishop Franz sat for a while without answering. “I make no secret of my wish to return to Würzburg, but there are various ways in which that can be accomplished. Some naturally more attractive to me than others.” He rose from his chair. “I’ll ride with you to Cologne, and introduce you to Sister Maximilane. She is Archbishop Ferdinand’s cousin, originally Countess Maria Maximilane von Wartenberg, and she is to take up residence in my house along with most of the women in my family. Your luggage can follow in a wagon. Otto Tweimal mentioned that you were involved in developing a European porcelain industry. Perhaps you would tell me more about this. Würzburg and Bamberg are traditionally winemaking areas, but it might be an idea to diversify a little.”