1635 The Papal Stakes (92 page)

Olivares’ face became carefully expressionless. “And how would that have been beneficial to us?”

“First,” Dolor explained, “I suspect that the up-timers would not have resorted to a strategy of forceful extraction so quickly, if ever. Had we repatriated the wife, they would have logically clung to the hope that the same could be achieved for the husband, with enough negotiation. And there was only one thing they had possession of that we would have been interested in negotiating for.”

Olivare’s eyebrows climbed. “The up-timers would never have turned Urban over to us in exchange for the husband.”

“Of course not, Your Grace. However, once our requests were rebuffed, we could have sent an envoy to either Gustav Adolf or his adversaries within the government of the USE. They could have—legitimately, in this scenario—protested that, in the case of the wife, His Majesty Philip had made humanitarian accommodations desired by the USE. However, the up-timers had then autonomously rejected the reasonable reciprocal requests of Spain. Which was, simply, that the legitimate guardian of the fractured Roman Catholic Church, Cardinal Borja, be given the fugitive anti-pope. Or that the up-timers simply mind their own business and cease aiding and sheltering him.”

Dolor ate, affecting not to notice Olivares’ frank, admiring stare when he continued. “Would this have gained us access to Urban? Of course not—but it would have generated much political division in the USE. The almost autonomous activities of the up-timers against our forces and in our territories, would have been brought into sharp relief. It is exactly the kind of issue that Stearns’ opponents in the USE would eagerly build into a
casus belli
—and Borja missed the opportunity. Alas, he did not even see it—no more than he has seen the other situations in Rome that have severe international implications. Indeed, one such matter could send shocks of a most personal and unpleasant nature right into His Majesty’s private chambers.”

Olivares sat up sharply. “To what do you refer?”

It was now time for Dolor to play the card he’d been waiting for Fate to deal him his whole life. “You received my confirmation that it was indeed John O’Neill—son of the late Hugh O’Neill, the eldest of the two remaining princes of Ireland—who was slain in the courtyard of the Palazzo Giacomo Mattei?”

“I did,” Olivares said, his eyes suddenly careful. “As you conjecture, that promises to be a thorny matter when presented at court. And I note that you made no mention of Cardinal Borja’s reaction. Why?”

Dolor knew the time had come to turn the card face up. “Because I did not report it to him.”

“No?” Olivares stared, and then, after a flash of what looked like both outrage and relief, an expression of careful calculation settled into his features. “Who else knows that it was O’Neill?”

“Others. Enough to make sure that the information is safe, that it cannot be lost by any collection of unfortunate accidents.”

Olivares smiled. “Your prudence—against Fate’s whims and my treachery—is duly noted, Señor Dolor. But it affords little flattery to our dealings thus far; they have been in good faith.”

Said the axe-wielding farmer to the Christmas chicken.
“That is true, Count-Duke Olivares. I mean no offense to you. After all, what if you were to pass this information to a less honorable subordinate this afternoon, but God called you to his kingdom at dinner this night? Kings have been slain by fish bones, after all.”

Olivares smiled at Dolor’s face-saving explanation. “Very well, so the information is safe. And not in Borja’s hands. But why did you not share it?”

“I would have, had he asked, Your Grace. But he did not. He conducted no review of his own. Nor did he take note of the strange coincidence of Father Luke Wadding’s apparent removal from St. Isidore’s and the involvement of several Wild Geese at the
insula
Mattei. That alone would prompt a prudent man to begin a careful investigation. Which would have revealed O’Neill’s identity quite quickly. And that, in turn, would have prompted an obvious question: why was the king in the Low Countries’ best known mercenary commander in Rome? The obvious answer—that he was in Rome to kill his Spanish comrades and free the son and daughter-in-law of the wealthiest up-timer—has ramifications of singular import to His Majesty, King Philip.”

Olivares’ expression had become grim. “You are right, of course—in both your assessment of how difficult an issue this will be to raise with His Majesty, and Borja’s failure to detect it.” Olivares pushed the last shrimp around his plate in irritation. “This entire matter—of the Irish in Rome—makes matters more complicated in regards to evolving a suitable policy regarding the changes in the Low Countries.”

“And I suppose it would become even more difficult to reveal that the Irish were also involved in the raid upon the Castell de Bellver.”

Olivares forgot the rogue shrimp. His eyes widened. “The Irish were in Mallorca, as well?”

“Without doubt, Your Grace. We found these in Rome—” Dolor held up what looked like a strangely formed wooden ring—“and in Bellver as well. The two examples we have were badly scorched; they endured the fire only because they were apparently in or near a large tun of water, at the time.”

“But what are these rings? Why do they signify the presence of the Irish?”

“These rings are used to hold the priming caps in place for a preloaded cylinder for this kind of revolver.” And Dolor produced a battered pepperbox revolver from within the folds of his garments.

Olivares stared. “What is that?”

“It is a new design of pistol, inspired by up-time technology. After Rome, we found three of them, one near each of the bodies of the Wild Geese. I had inquiries made as to the weapon’s manufacture. Do you care to guess where it is being produced, by privately contracted gunsmiths?”

“The Low Countries.” Olivares tone was a statement, not a question.

“Precisely. The money came from the court, albeit indirectly. The design was conceived of—in general principles—by the last of the Irish princes, Hugh O’Donnell.”

“I know him. And that only compounds the embarrassment.”

Dolor raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because O’Donnell renounced his membership in one of Spain’s most prestigious orders of knighthood, the Order of Alcantara, as well as his position as a Gentleman of His Majesty’s bedchamber, within the past few months.”

So. There was widespread disaffection brewing among Philip’s long-neglected Irish allies. Hardly a surprise—but damnably awkward for Olivares. Which only made Dolor’s hand stronger than he had anticipated. He played another card: “We found similar rings at St. Isidore’s, but did not know what to make of them. And to return to the attack on the Castell de Bellver, one of the corporals manning the western ravelin heard a Gaelic war-cry within the walls, just before the shooting became most intense.”

Olivares cocked an eyebrow of his own now. “I was not aware so many of our rank-in-file artillerists possessed expertise in obscure Celtic languages.”

“Only those who served with the Irish at the siege of Breda and other Lowland campaigns, Your Grace. Our men have always noted that the Irish stir themselves up with such cries immediately before they make the most dangerous of charges or sallies.”

Olivares actually rubbed his eyes with his hands. This was better than Dolor could have hoped for. “Do you have any idea of how many Wild Geese were involved in these attacks, Señor Dolor?”

“I doubt more than twenty, Your Grace. Probably more like a dozen. But the identity of one of their other leaders may be of greater significance than their numbers.”

“What do you mean?”

Dolor spread his hands. “Several of my contacts in the South of France reported that, back in May, a person answering to John O’Neill’s description was seen taking ship for Italy. Another notable was with him, and that person answered more closely to the description of Owen Roe O’Neill—whose tercio in the Low Countries is now reportedly under the nominal control of his arch-rival Thomas Preston. It is tempting to wonder if the redoubtable Owen Roe O’Neill was also present for the rescue attempts at both—”

“Enough!” Olivares held up a hand, shaking his head. “This whole matter becomes worse and worse. I had hoped to find a way of explaining Conde O’Neill’s involvement in Rome as a fluke, a personal aberration. But this begins to smack of a mission conducted with the blessing, maybe even at the behest, of Fernando himself. And with so much evidence pointing in this direction, I must reveal it now, or keep it forever buried.”

“Perhaps there is a third option.”

Olivares looked up, eyes narrow and quick. “What do you mean?”

And from the look in those eyes, Dolor knew he had Olivares. He finally had leverage over the man who could change his fortunes, even make possible the eventual supplantation of his father at court—who, being a figurative bastard, had long ago sired a literal, miserable one in the shape of one Pedro Dolor.

Olivares’ tone was urgent. “What do you mean, a third alternative? Do you mean that perhaps the matter can remain buried, if only for a time?”

“Of course, Your Grace—if the evidence and the information is handled correctly. The inchoate reports from Bellver could take some time to untangle, naturally.” Dolor smiled. “And after all, it will be sheer—and long-delayed—chance that leads me to eventually piece together the disparate evidence and physical clues that our own soldiers scattered in the aftermath of the combat at the
insula
Mattei.”

“Yes, I see. These ‘delays’ would be most helpful, Señor Dolor.” Olivares smiled.

Dolor didn’t smile back.

Olivares’ smile faded, then returned, sly but also an admission that his henchman had, in this moment, undergone a sudden transformation into something more like his vassal. “As I said, this would be most helpful,
Don Pedro
. Now tell me, what will it take for a complete report—and thus, news of the involvement of O’Neill and his Wild Geese—to be so unfortunately delayed?

Dolor leaned back and savored the moment he had been waiting his whole life to savor. At last he would have a position from which he could begin to exact true and proper vengeance, the closest thing to justice he could acquire for all the little boys that Madrid’s mighty and the powerful had abandoned to cruel streets.

Little boys who had been abandoned just as he and his brother had.

CHAPTER SIXTY

Mike Stearns came into the headquarters tent of his Third Division, peeling off his gloves. As he did so, he bestowed an almost baleful gaze upon his two visitors.

“Ed Piazza, President of the State of Thuringia Piazza, and my once-spymaster Don Francisco Nasi,” he stated. “Come all the way here from such distant parts. No doubt you dropped by unexpectedly to bring me tidings of good cheer.”

Nasi smiled. Piazza shook his head.

“Tidings of tension, I’m afraid,” said Ed. “And it is rising everywhere.”

Stearns sat down. “I take it you’re referring to the backlash from Urban’s rescue?”

“He most certainly is, Michael,” answered Francisco. “The reactions have been pouring in over the last few days, and there are some twists that you should know about. The evolving situation could even catch up with you out here—particularly since you are getting close to Poland.”

“What do you mean?” said Stearns.

“The latest information is that the leading clergy of Catholic nations have been much more swift in responding to the news of Urban’s survival than we expected, probably because he is also calling for a papal council next spring.”

“Well, I expected that eventually—but next spring? Where?”

“That’s part of the kicker,” Ed added. “Urban isn’t saying where—yet. But he has already announced that one of the items on the council’s agenda will be the state of relations among Christian nations, which will necessarily involve a close and critical assessment of the conditions that warrant having the Church declare other religious practices to be heretical, and more importantly, what conditions—if any—necessitate that it must take action against such practices.”

Stearns looked at the other two. Then he took a deep, slow breath while he gazed out at the flat Saxon countryside visible through the still-open tent flap. The sun was setting. There was still enough light to see by, but his batman had already lit the lamps inside the tent.

He now understood why Ed and Francisco had come all this way to discuss the matter with him, despite the fact that he was no longer the USE’s prime minister. He wasn’t even a member of Parliament any longer, since he’d resigned from his seat when he accepted his commission in the army. They were probably violating at least twenty rules of political protocol, but…

Political protocol be damned. He looked back at his two visitors. “He’s going to do a down-time version of Vatican II.” The statement was flat and certain.

Francisco nodded. “Which has triggered responses from the clergy of every major nation. Mind you, their statements are not always declarative—there are a lot of carefully muted reactions—but it seemed that no one wanted to remain silent.”

Stearns leaned forward. “So how does it shake out?”

Ed scratched his head through his thinning hair. “Well, with the exception of a couple of whacko Calvinist sects that even the mainstream Calvinists avoid, every single major Protestant clerical figure or council has come out with either strong or guarded support for Urban’s initiative. That includes most of the major voices in Switzerland and England.”

“No surprise, there,” observed Mike, who eyed the small bottle of up-time whiskey that Ed was slowly edging out of his pocket.

“A similar level of support is looked for from Gustav, who we suspect will be in touch with you about a joint statement, given how prominently Larry Mazzare’s name has figured in all this.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Make my day.”

“Other regions declaring for Urban include the entirety of the Low Countries and, conspicuously, every one of the USE’s Catholic provinces. Bohemia and Austria are being a bit more circumspect. They are careful to say nothing about Borja, but both express their relief to learn that ‘the pope is alive’ and look forward to his further messages.”