1635 The Papal Stakes (61 page)

Frank frowned. “He—Vincente—did all that?”

“Why, yes, of course. Despite your refusal to take his visits. Frankly, I do not know why he tolerates such insolence.”

“We, uh…we have a history.” Gia was leaning over so Frank could not avoid seeing the way she stared at him with her twinkling “
told you so”
eyes.

The governor waved a dismissive hand. “That is your affair. But I suppose you are well suited for each other. You, a lunatic, will not be offended by his insufferable imperiousness.”

Frank reflected that Don Sancho accusing Don Vincente of imperiousness was like an elephant criticizing a mouse for being too large.

The governor stalked toward the door, turned and looked back at the papers he had brought in. “So it is a novel, eh? What is this novel of yours about?”

Frank smiled lopsidedly. “Uh. A lot of things. But nothing in particular, just yet. It’s a work in progress, you see.”

“Hmf.” Don Sancho looked down his nose at the papers that, when he tossed them down, had scattered across the dark wood surface of Frank’s writing table. “It is all lunacy and sorcery, I’ll wager.”

Gia hopped down from her seat at the window and rose to her full height of just over five foot two. “My husband does not traffic in sorcery.”

“He is an up-timer, is he not? That makes him a witch!”

“And you are an appointed official, are you not? That makes you an idiot.”

The governor’s eyes, darkened, kept burning holes in Giovanna even when Frank stepped between them. “Hey, hey, no reason for harsh words. You know how it is; wives hate to hear their husband’s work being run down.”

“Eh? So? This is work? It looks like rubbish to me. You can’t even tell me what it’s about. Maybe she can?”

Giovanna’s eyebrows arched. “Maybe. Do not be so sure that I am not the muse that guides my husband’s hand.” She smiled at Frank. “Or at least his heart.”

Frank smiled back. “Definitely my heart.” He swallowed and felt butterflies in his stomach the way he always did when Gia looked at him that way. “And everything else as well.”

Don Sancho Jaume Morales y Llaguno, governor of Castell de Bellver, scowled and began descending the stairs, down to the level of the lazarette that was flush with the roof of the castle. His griping grunt was clearly, and probably intentionally, audible. “Hmf. It’s bad enough to be a warder for sorcerers. But sentimental ones? Bah. They are embarrassments to their own unholy profession.”

“And you will inform them, Captain, that I will not suffer such insolence again—not from such villainous, demon-consorting, scum as them!”

Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas managed not to roll his eyes. He kept them politely focused on Don Sancho, whose small form was almost fully hidden by his large desk. “Governor, do you seriously believe that Frank Stone is a companion to demons? Frank?”

The governor’s haughty chin came down a bit, and he looked away, almost embarrassed. “Well…no, not him. He is too boyish, too stupid. But that wife of his! She could be half-devil, from the look of her!”

Now Don Vincente had to suppress a smile. Yes, judging from what the guards told him of some of the nocturnal noise-making she had perpetrated in Rome, he would not be surprised if there was at least a gill of diabolical blood in her veins. “Governor, I know the wife has a sharp tongue, if she is provoked. But if that is a mark of the devil, then fully half of us may be so branded. Besides, she is well into her second trimester and knows she will give birth to her first child in a prison. Taken together, I think these explain her testiness.”

“Perhaps. And while we are on the topic of when and how this bulging she-goat will whelp her offspring, the husband has been insisting that our local midwives are insufficient for assisting with the birth. He claims that the American ambassadora in Rome, this Nichols creature, is a physician, and that she warned them that, when the wife’s time came, she should have a doctor.”

Don Vincente wondered if he’d ever be able to display a genuine facial expression again; now he suppressed a frown. Odd. Frank had never mentioned this before. But perhaps this was because—

“I responded that they would have to make do with our midwives,” the governor nattered on, “that our doctors do not address the delicate conditions of women. They are not perverts, after all.”

Don Vincente nodded, wondering if the next thing the governor would reveal was that Frank had made a request for—

“So today Stone proposed that
xueta
physicians are the answer to this dilemma. Which I find surprising; to my knowledge, most of them have the same scruples and decency as true Christian physicians in this regard. Only a few of them will become involved with pregnancies, and then, only when there is an emergency.”

Now Don Vincente was able to indulge in a genuine physical reaction: an affirming nod. But the affirmation it signified was not in relation to the governor’s streaming complaints, only his own suspicions. On the one hand, if Giovanna did have any irregularities during her later pregnancy or delivery, a crypto-Jewish
converso
physician—one of the few willing to cross the implicit gender boundaries and treat a woman in dire need—was by far the best one to have. It was another dirty secret of Spain’s nobility; they employed the services of
conversos
—who, it was uniformly known, persisted in the covert practice of Judaism—when their wives’ pregnancies became too problematic for midwives to handle, just as they went to the
marrano
community to seek secret loans that were prohibited by Church’s stern rules against usury.

But Don Vincente realized that the request for a true physician could also be a shrewd tactic for establishing a connection with the
xuetas
, Mallorca’s own crypto-Jewish community. Beneath Frank’s good-natured and idealistic exterior, there lurked a surprisingly canny and untimid mind that was quite capable of plotting deceptions and tricks. And in this case, it was very capable of considering the current situation and realizing that, if there was any way to send communications to, or receive them from, the outside world, it would be through Palma’s “converted” Jewish community.

Grantville had become a haven for Jews throughout Europe, and had also evolved into the epicenter of their commercial interests, insofar as their far-flung involvements had anything vaguely resembling a center. Francisco Nasi, outgoing chief of Mike Stearns’ intelligence network, was a leading member of that community. Stearns’ wife, Rebecca Abrabanel was the daughter of another. And in many of the places where the Wrecking Crew had plied their dubious trade, they had frequently relied upon the surreptitious support of Jewish communities. Don Vincente wondered if the up-timers would still receive such ready assistance after the debacle in Rome, which had led directly to the bloody reprisals against the Ghetto. On the other hand, Frank would be too smart—and too considerate—to request overt help from the
xuetas
of Palma; he would simply begin a relationship that he could groom into a conduit for news, and eventually, message sending.

Or, Don Vincente admitted, he might be just trying to secure the best possible care for a small wife who showed signs of carrying large. So he said, “Governor, in Stone’s up-time world, most physicians, even those attending to female needs, were men.”

“Perverts, just as I suspected,” Don Sancho sniffed primly.

“From what little I have been able to glean, unholy lusts had nothing to do with it, Don Sancho. Up until the decades before the up-timers were taken from their world, most opportunities to study at universities and become doctors remained the province of men. The skills and sciences of saving lives—of mothers and infants, too—were thus entrusted to their hands.”

“It is still a corruption of God’s will, Captain. If our Savior wills that a mother and her infant be called to His Bosom in their holy innocence, then so be it. Our desire to save those lives is not merely an insufficient excuse for perversion, but heretical; if God wishes the company of these mothers and infants in His Heavenly Kingdom, who are we to challenge His Will?”

“I am no theologian,” admitted Vincente in an attempt to placate Don Sancho. “But let us be practical: if Señora Stone’s pregnancy is difficult, and either she or the child should be lost, what do you think Cardinal Borja’s reaction would be? Or Philip’s?

Don Sancho blanched. “So you support the prisoner’s request for a Jewish physician?”

Not wanting to look overly concerned with the decision, Don Vincente shrugged. “I cannot see how it would harm anyone to make the necessary inquiries in the
xueta
quarter. And let us not forget that the
xuetas
are, in fact, Christians, now.”

The governor sneered. “In name only. As you well know.” He seemed to frown down at the tabletop. “I suppose it is politically prudent to grant Stone’s request. Although I must say I had expected a more manly resolve from you, Captain.”

Castro y Papas stilled an impulse to grab the pasty-fleshed recipient of provincial sinecure by the neck and calmly ask him just what he meant by “more manly resolve.” “I am uncertain what you are referring to,” was what he said.

“I refer to your reputation among my men: that you are a relentless taskmaster. However, in the matter of the prisoners, you urge that we grant their request for Jewish doctors—yes, they
are
still Jewish—and that they be handled gently. Meanwhile, these soldiers you’ve brought from Fort San Carlos tell my men that the new rigid discipline, as well as the rigorous training, is all at your behest. And regarding your decision to reduce a man’s rations when he fails to meet your standards: are you sure this will really promote superior morale and professionalism?”

“Actually, yes,” was what Vincente wanted to say, but didn’t. “These are effective training methods for the tercios, Governor Morales y Llaguno. I presume they will work here as well.”

“Well, I am nowhere near so sure as you. In fact, I have a mind to—”

“To what?” inquired a voice from the doorway. Pedro Dolor’s silhouette stood framed against the backdrop of white-pink groined vaults and delicate arches of the second interior story of Castell de Bellver.

The governor swallowed. “I—I was just saying. That…that we are unaccustomed to the style of training that Captain Vincente has instituted here. My men find it—”

“—what? Too strenuous? Then perhaps they should not be members of this garrison. Captain Castro y Papas is carrying out my directives, Governor, for we are all answerable to Madrid for the continued security of these prisoners. That requires constant vigilance and full readiness. Your garrison was deficient in both regards. I see improvement, thanks to the captain. And if I were to learn that he was encountering resistance in his attempt to meet those objectives—”

“There shall be no resistance,” the governor said through a loud swallow. “I was simply explaining why my men might not be improving as swiftly as desired.”

“Yes,” said Dolor after a moment, “of course you were.” He turned to Castro y Papas. “Are you done here?”

The captain sent a polite glance at the governor, who nodded vigorously. Vincente made a short bow and followed Dolor out into the pleasant airs of the second story arcade. They walked slowly toward the stairs leading down to the ground level.

“I am returning to Palma this afternoon,” Dolor commented.

Thank God!
“So soon, Señor Dolor?”

“Yes. I have business there. Captain, you are not to allow the governor to obstruct you in the attainment of your objectives. The safety of the prisoners is ultimately in your hands.”

Don Vincente raised an eyebrow. “After your own, of course.”

“Only for now. Within the next two weeks, maybe three, I will return to Rome. Pope Urban has not yet been located. Until that task is completed, the Church cannot move beyond its current stalemate, which is in danger of becoming a true interregnum.”

What a nice term for that period of time after which an anti-pope will longer benefit from hunting down and killing the legitimate pontiff like a rabbit in a garden maze.
“I realize the urgency of that situation, Señor Dolor, but if left on my own here, I do not have enough legal authority to prevent the governor from—”

“Captain,” Dolor turned at the head of the stairway; the eyes looking up at Don Vincente were as dead as a statue’s. “I cannot confer more rank upon you, yet you must be firmly in charge here. You must accomplish this by the force of your personality and resolve. Do not fail me in this. I cannot tarry here; being in Palma does not move me closer to achieving my objectives.”

And for the last time that day, Don Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas suppressed a facial reflex, in this case, a surprised blink. Dolor’s words were innocuous on the surface, but his tone hinted at ambitions and desires that went far further, and were far more personal, than whatever skullduggery he had to settle for Borja in Italy. “I see,” Don Vincente answered simply.

Dolor nodded. “I hope you do.” Then he started down the stairs alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Just inside the entrance of the upstairs parlor that was rapidly becoming known as the Garden Room (the reference was to Gethsemane, not the barely visible vegetable plots behind the villa), Sharon put a hand on Larry Mazzare’s arm as he passed.

The village priest-turned-cardinal started, noticing the ambassadora and her husband for the first time. “Oh. Hello, Sharon. Ruy.” Antonio Barberini the Younger, with whom he had been talking, went on into the Garden Room.

Sharon kept her voice low. “Before you put on the gloves for round two, Larry, I just wanted to congratulate you on winning that all-important first battle. I’d have said so sooner, but we haven’t seen much of you for the past week.”

Larry smiled crookedly. “Trying to write a defense of up-time canonical doctrines from memory is pretty time-consuming, Sharon. Sorry I haven’t been around too much.”

“Not to worry, Larry; I’m just grateful that you proved we’re not demonspawn. Of course, you put us all at risk of
auto-da-fe
in the process.”