1636: The Cardinal Virtues (30 page)

Chapter 39

June, 1636

Magdeburg

Gustav Adolf, King of Sweden, Emperor of the United States of Europe, rose to his full height more quickly and suddenly than anyone else in the paneled conference room would, or could, have expected.

“He said . . .
what?
”

Ed Piazza barely kept himself from smiling. Estuban Miro was more uncomfortable, and less amused.

“According to Colonel Hand,” Miro said, “Monsieur Gaston—‘King Gaston,’ as he now styles himself—accused us of harboring Her Majesty Queen Anne and her infant child in our territory.”

“And
are
we doing so?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Miro said. “At least not so far as I know.”

“You are now the spider at the center of the web, Don Estuban, since Francisco Nasi moved to Prague. I realize that you are newly come to this position”—Gustav Adolf smiled thinly—“which is in any event not yet an official position so long as Wettin remains prime minister. Still, I must ask: how soon can I assume that you know what is happening everywhere in our sovereign lands?”

“At all times?”

“That would be my preference,” Gustav Adolf said. “Do I underestimate you?”

“I cannot say,” Miro answered. “I thank Your Majesty for your appreciation of my talents, but no one can have that level of expectation. Still, as far as I can tell, Queen Anne has not sought asylum in the USE, and we have not granted it.”

“Then why does the self-styled king of France issue this accusation?”

Don Estuban looked at Piazza, who shrugged. “From what I’ve been able to determine,” Ed said, “Gaston’s motives are often muddled. But in this case I think he’s throwing stones everywhere he can in the hopes of flushing his quarry.”

The emperor resumed his seat. “I suspect you’re right. The queen worries Gaston not for herself but because of her child—who under established French law is the rightful heir to the throne.”

Miro nodded. “In essence, Gaston is demanding that we choose sides. As will Queen Anne, if she surfaces and asks us for asylum.”

“And what is your advice?”

Miro looked uncomfortable. He glanced at the president of the SoTF but Piazza’s face was blank of any expression.

“I think you should really ask the prime minister’s advice, Your Majesty,” Miro said.

“I already have,” Gustav Adolf replied curtly. “Two hours ago. Now I want your advice.” He swiveled his head to bring Piazza into his blue-eyed gaze. Rather cold gaze, at the moment. “And yours, Edward.”

“I think we should refuse to respond to Gaston’s accusation one way or the other. Simply send him a note to the effect that this is not our affair. The dispute over the succession is an internal matter to the kingdom of France, with which we are not at war.”

The emperor’s head swiveled back to Miro. “And you?”

“I agree with President Piazza, Your Majesty.”

Gustav Adolf grunted. “Regardless of what official stance we take, what do you think? Surely we think this child is the rightful king of France?”

“If we decide that’s true,” Piazza said, “and act on it, that would certainly count as us ‘taking sides’ in the matter.”

“Yes,” Gustav said. “It would. I likely do not need to ask what the fate would be for Queen Anne and the child if they were returned to the custody of Gaston.”

Neither Miro nor Piazza made any reply.

The emperor rose to his feet again. The movement, this time, was relaxed. “As it happens—not really to my surprise—your advice matches that given to me by Willem Wettin. So, having to the best of my ability”—the grin that came here was as cold as his gaze—“maintained constitutional decorum in this odd political situation we have at the moment, I will . . . What’s the proper word? Instruct? Recommend? Urge?”

Piazza smiled. “You can’t go wrong with ‘urge,’ Your Majesty.”

“Urge it is, then. I will urge the prime minister to send a diplomatic reply to King Gaston along the lines we’ve discussed. Then we’ll wait and see how he responds. In the meantime, Don Estuban, I want you to direct all your efforts to finding Queen Anne and her entourage. And if they have entered our territory . . .”

The emperor scratched his cheek again, pondering the matter.

“Your Majesty?” Don Estuban said.

Gustav Adolf lowered his hand and made a short, firm gesture with it. “Take them under my personal protection. I will not have it said that I do not protect women and children in my realm.”

Cambrai

France was full of toll-gates. Every bridge, every sorry excuse for a turnpike, every branching of the road seemed to have some stout peasant with a half-rusted halberd or pike left over from his grandfather’s time waiting for passers-by, intending to demand a few
sous
to let a carriage and horsemen pass. In many cases, Jacques-de-Péage would see a few well-armed riders and a well-built carriage and decide to raise the little gate and just let them pass—but others were resolute, full of bluff and vigor, claiming ancient right and royal leave to operate their business.
Honored Monsieur, it is upon my honor to earn daily bread for my family.

Vendôme would have run them down with a firm charge, but Mazarin was usually willing to pay the small fee and pass. It was better to go unnoticed than to attract more attention.

In the midst of a summer thunderstorm, the queen’s entourage crossed the border between France and the Low Countries. The scenery, such as it was, did not change any more than the weather. Within the carriage, the little king slept and his mother dozed, while Katie and the duchess of Chevreuse took turns alert, in case either of their charges needed assistance.

Mazarin drove the carriage, sheltered under a heavy cape, while Achille rode with the duc de Vendôme and his sons on horseback. It was no understatement to say that they did not trust the nobleman’s change of heart. Mazarin would have preferred that the knight of Malta be the driver; he was still hobbled from the wound he had received at Amiens. But he praised the medical attentions of Katie Matewski and dismissed Mazarin’s fears.

“On horseback I don’t need to walk,” he had said, “and even with one leg I’m twice the swordsman and three times as good a shot as you are.”

Even if he thought that Achille would bend to suggestion, he wasn’t disposed to argue.

When they stopped to rest and water the horses, Mazarin made sure to position himself between the carriage door and where Vendôme and Achille stood, out of the rain, rubbing down their mounts. He made no attempt to conceal it, and finally the duke looked at him and said, “You don’t trust me, Monseigneur Mazarin.”

“I will not deny it.”

“Your queen has made up her mind. I would have thought that was good enough for you.”

“I don’t intend to defend myself to her based on your insinuations, my lord. You will forgive me for being suspicious: you are a soldier, and an experienced one.”

“Meaning?”

“A raw recruit is easy to read, I should think. If you meant harm to the queen, you would have taken some action already. But as an experienced campaigner, you could be playing the long game.”

“I have declared upon my honor that I am her man. She has accepted me.”

“Yes,” Mazarin answered. “She has. I have registered my objections, and she has noted them.”

“And ignored them.”

“Regrettably. I hope she does not rue her decision, or worse yet, find it a fatal mistake.”

“Are you trying to provoke me? Because if I were . . . less of an experienced campaigner, as you say, I might feel that you impugn my honor.”

“I do not think we should be discussing your
honor
, Your Grace. Your honor was unaffected when you killed the king of France.”

“That was a mistake, as I explained. And it pains me greatly.”

“Forgive me for being skeptical.”

“Are you going to make an issue of this on a continuing basis, Monseigneur?”

“No,” Mazarin answered. “But as the queen’s life is in my care, I intend to make sure to whatever extent I am able that you have no opportunity to do her harm. It may not be your goal; but I will not take the chance that you are deceiving her. And us.”

Vendôme did not answer right away; he focused on his horse’s tack. Finally he turned around to look at Mazarin directly.

“I will do as I have promised,” he said at last. “And there will be a reckoning for you, Monseigneur. Not here, and not now; not until after the queen has been escorted to a place of safety. But there will be a reckoning.

“I hope that, under the cloak of sanctity that accompanies your priestly vows, you are still a man.”

◊ ◊ ◊

With their arrival in the Spanish Netherlands, there had been some discussion regarding secrecy—whether the queen should travel openly, revealing that she had been pursued by the agents of a usurper king. Vendôme had been in favor of the idea: he argued that they were now beyond Gaston’s reach, and that conducting themselves as fugitives was undignified at best and suspicious at worst. Both Mazarin and Achille believed the opposite. Gaston might well be in league with the Spanish; certainly his mother had always favored warm relations with the Hapsburgs. If the duc de Vendôme wanted to travel openly, Mazarin was more than happy to be a part of his entourage rather than the queen’s. Due to his services across the continent after his exile from France, he was well-known, or feared, or both.

So they came to Cambrai, a fortified town. They entered through the Porte Saint-Denis on the south side, with the rain still falling but reduced to a depressing drizzle; in the lee of a covered archway near the church of St. Géry, Mazarin climbed down from the driver’s seat and into the carriage to consult with his queen.

“We should try to find a hostel, Majesty,” he said. “It’ll be dark soon.”

Anne had pulled the carriage curtain aside, admitting a wan, gray light into the passenger compartment. The air outside was damp and muggy and stank of city; inside it was hot and still and smelled of nursery. The king was sleeping peacefully in the arms of the duchess of Chevreuse, who looked sweaty and tired.

“I am very tired, Jules,” Anne said.

“I can imagine. The road—”

“No. You misunderstand.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I am tired of running and hiding. I am tired of looking over my shoulder for the next agent of my brother-in-law. I think that it is time we changed tactics.”

“We discussed this.”

“We did. And I agreed with you at the time, believing that . . . the other opinion was wrong.” She had not quite brought herself to mention César de Vendôme by name, or address him directly since she had taken his oath. She would sometimes spare a look or a word for one of his sons, but she kept the father at a distance.

“Has something changed, my Queen?”

“I have tried to comfort myself with prayer, seeking reassurance that my aunt will receive and protect us. Now that we are in the Low Countries and coming closer, I am unsure.”

“There aren’t very many choices.”

“No. That is absolutely true. We are . . . I feel as if we are at the edge of a precipice, Jules. Behind us are advancing enemies, beyond is a yawning gulf. Nothing is certain.”

“That he is king is certain,” Mazarin said, gesturing toward the sleeping child. “All of what we do, and much of what we have become, depends on that. I assume that you are firm in that belief.”

“From what we are told,” she answered, carefully omitting any reference to Vendôme, “the people of France rejoiced when Gaston received the crown and was proclaimed king. They regard him as in many ways the sort of king that France needs: energetic, assertive, clever, devoted to his queen and . . . fertile. In short, everything Louis was not. Whether that perception is correct or incorrect may be beside the point. To throw the realm into conflict now might simply be irresponsible.”

The gray light from outside etched Anne’s face in light and shadow. She was not presentable as queen regent: her hair was wrapped in a tignon, she wore little jewelry—but she was still regal for all that. Yet at this moment, on this afternoon in this place, it seemed to Mazarin that the defiance had somehow drained from her, to be replaced by nothing more than acute sadness—she was advancing the very argument she had so angrily rejected just a few days earlier at Rumigny.

“He has attributes that his brother did not possess, Majesty,” Mazarin said. He reached out to her, and she took his hand in her two, letting a handkerchief fall into her lap. Her hands were damp, and he could see that she had given in to tears. “But he is
far
from the king your husband was. Louis was just, he was noble; he cared about France much more than Gaston will ever do. You say that he cares about his wife; but in the end, Gaston cares most about
himself
.”

“There are times in the last twenty years, Jules, that the same could be said about my husband.”

“I will not speak ill of the dead, my lady.”

“No.” She let go of Mazarin’s hands and picked up her handkerchief. “No, you’re right. But I want to approach my aunt Isabella more carefully. Throwing ourselves into her arms is not a position of strength. She would not hand us over to Gaston, but she might convey us to my brother the King of Spain. In either case, my son’s fate would be in someone else’s hands.”

“Then what would you like me to do? You know that I am at your service in all things.”

“The archbishop of Cambrai is a Jesuit, a man from Utrecht named Van der Burch. He was confirmed in his see in Ghent, and then here by my uncle Albert when he was governor of the Netherlands before the war. I have never met him, but I believe he could be a trustworthy intermediary between myself and my aunt Isabella.”

“So you wish to put us under the protection of an archbishop you’ve never met who is a protégé of a deceased uncle who surely considered himself an enemy of France, in a city you’ve never visited.”

“He is a Jesuit,” Anne said. “A logical thinker. It would hardly behoove someone in his position to conduct himself in any improper manner. He would receive me as a queen. Not looking like
this
,” she added, allowing herself a small smile. “And at my request would convey a letter to my aunt on my behalf.”