1636: The Cardinal Virtues (35 page)

Chapter 45

Paris

The day had begun sultry and hot, the buildings in Paris baking and then spreading the heat to the cobblestoned and paved streets. Terrye Jo had known hot summers in Grantville, especially before the Ring of Fire; there were days that it was almost too hot to move, even toward the end of the school year—when Ms. Maddox would get them out on the track or in the field to sweat their asses off running or playing soccer or baseball; but there were plenty of places to cool down too, down by Buffalo Creek and elsewhere, and a few places with air conditioning or big fans that blew the air around at least.

In Paris, down-time, there was no escape. No air conditioning, no portable fans, and flies for all the usual reasons—especially down by the Seine.

The rooms that Monsieur—now King—Gaston had set aside for her had a sort of covered patio that gave a pretty good view of the Rue Saint-Antoine without the smells and the flies. There was usually a breeze, and she’d arranged for a little trestle table to be put out there.

Artemisio and Georges had both been a little surprised by the idea, and her manservant Daniel had been shocked almost to the point of making her want to dismiss him. By the end of the first week it was where they usually met and did a lot of their work that didn’t involve direct operation of the equipment. It was
score one for the up-timer
.

All morning she had been working on a design for an improved receiver, one that might pick up audio as well as telegraph signals. There were a half-dozen books spread out along with a block of cheap paper and a half-dozen pencils, rulers and protractors and all the rest, and a nice bottle of wine and three glasses: one half-full that she’d used and two empty ones turned upside down. She was working her way through a badly written description from a nineteenth-century telegraphy book when she heard Daniel clear his throat. She was dimly aware that he may have done it a few times before she noticed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said when she turned to look at him. “There is a gentleman to see you.”

It was their agreed-upon code. A
gentleman
wasn’t the king, the queen, their daughter—who actually turned up all the time to see the wondrous up-time wizardry—or King Gaston’s agent, the count of Soissons. It was someone important, but no one from the palace.

“Anyone we know?”

“His Excellency the ambassador from the USE.”

“Colonel Hand is here—to see me?”

“He said that it was somewhat urgent, mademoiselle. If you are busy I can—”

“No, no. Send him up at once. You didn’t . . . already make him wait a while before telling me, did you?” Daniel did that sometimes, telling her that it was a common strategy in gentle households when the visitor had no appointment, in order to make sure he understood the importance of the host’s time.

“Not His Excellency the ambassador, mademoiselle. He . . . I should not think he would be much pleased with such behavior.”

Daniel’s reaction showed more than a touch of fear. He did not continue, but also didn’t show any sign of leaving.

“Well?”

Just then he seemed to realize that he’d already been given instructions. “Yes, mademoiselle,” he said, backing away from the door to the patio. “Right away, mademoiselle.”

Terrye Jo hadn’t been expecting visitors: she was in work pants and a blouse with the sleeves pinned back—no cravat, no doublet, no jacket and a pair of slippers instead of her usual boots.

It’ll have to do
, she thought.

After a moment Colonel Erik Haakonson Hand appeared by the door. Daniel, still looking a bit intimidated, said, “Mademoiselle. His Excellency Colonel Hand.”

“Very good, Daniel. You may go.”

The servant seemed quite pleased with the idea of going and quickly left the two of them alone on the patio.

“Colonel Hand,” Terrye Jo said, standing and extending a hand, which the Swede took. “Great to see you. What brings you here to Spacely Sprockets?”

“Eh?” he answered, his brows furrowed. It was an up-timer expression—
another
up-timer expression—and he thought he knew what she meant but couldn’t be sure. “I . . . Miss Tillman. Have you had any other visitors this morning?”

“No. Nobody. I mean, the crew has been around; I sent Georges Cordonnier to Les Halles for a few items, but no real visitors.”

“Good. I . . . Miss Tillman, I think you should gather your things together and come to the embassy at once.”

“Why?”

“Questions, questions. You are in danger, and it is my charge to make sure you are not harmed.”

“I’m in
danger
? Why? I’m just a telegraph operator. A damn good one, I’ll admit, but that’s it.”

“No,” Hand said. “That is
not
‘it.’ You are a telegraph operator, that is true—one who has sent and received a number of sensitive messages while in the employ of Gaston of Orléans. I have heard a rumor to the effect that someone at the Louvre, perhaps Gaston himself, has ordered your arrest.”

“Why would he do that? I haven’t—I mean, I don’t talk out of school—”

“Desperate men do desperate things, Miss Tillman. I cannot compel you to come with me, but I really must insist. The reason he would do it is not because of what you might have done, but about what you might yet do. Gaston—”

“The king knows I don’t—”

Hand stepped close to her and said quietly, “that’s the nub of it, Miss Tillman. He is, or might not be, the king. There is a broadsheet that is circulating through Paris just slightly faster than Gaston’s servants can take it down. The Lady Anne, the queen dowager, has issued a statement supporting the claim of her baby son to the throne, and accuses Gaston of being the motive force behind the actions of her husband’s murderer.”

“And does she say who that might be?”

“César de Vendôme, Gaston’s half-brother.”

“So why doesn’t—”

“Why doesn’t Gaston simply arrest Vendôme? He can’t. Apparently that prince is in the company of Anne herself.”

“She has her husband’s murderer
with her
, wherever she is? That’s pretty damn weird.”

“She is in Brussels, a guest of the dowager archduchess Isabella,” Hand said. “And yes, it is very strange. Accusations and counter-accusations are erupting all over the city.”

Terrye Jo turned away and looked out across the Rue Saint-Antoine, as if somehow she could see those accusations running down the sunbaked streets.

“You think I am personally in danger.”

“Miss Tillman, at least a week ago Cardinal de Tremblay, one of Cardinal Richelieu’s closest advisors, disappeared. It is rumored that he was taken to the Châtelet. He is a public figure, a prince of the Church; people know his name. What do you think would happen if you . . . disappeared?”

“You make this sound like Soviet Russia.”

“An up-time reference I don’t understand. Does that mean you realize your danger or you are ignoring my warnings?”

“I got it,” she said. “What about my people?”

“I don’t think Gaston cares about them. Only about you. In fact, as I understand it, he has indicated that he mistrusts
all
up-timers.” When Terrye Jo hesitated, Hand continued, “Miss Tillman, there may have been a time when his view of you was as a servant or an employee, but now he clearly perceives you as a threat. None of your subordinates have been privy to the communications that you witnessed.

“I have a carriage waiting outside, and I urge you to accompany me.”

“And if this turns out to be nothing—”

“In the unlikely event that I am wrong, then I shall escort you back.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Terrye Jo Tillman had known fear before. Her short stint in the military, even though it wasn’t front line duty, convinced her that this century was even more dangerous than the one she’d grown up in. Less than five years after the Ring of Fire the USE had monuments to those who had died in its service, because of the dangers that the seventeenth century presented.

But she had not been afraid since she’d begun to work for the duke of Savoy and Monsieur—now King—Gaston. It always seemed as if she was a prized commodity, an up-timer with a valuable skill, someone who would be protected and never threatened. Now, riding in a curtained, closed carriage through the streets of Paris from the Rue Saint-Antoine to the USE embassy across the river, she wondered whether she could actually be made to “disappear.”

It’s not too far to the embassy,
she thought as they rode slowly along. Colonel Hand had told her not to open the curtains: if she could see out, someone could see in. She knew the city well enough after just a few months, though: she could hear the sounds of Les Halles and smell the stink of the Seine.

He sat opposite her in the carriage; he seemed relaxed, but she could see that he had his sidearms easily in reach.

Expecting trouble.

Then it came: the sounds of horsemen and a shout to halt the carriage in the name of the king. She began getting to her feet as the carriage lurched to a halt: but the colonel held up his good hand toward her and moved to the door, opening it and quickly closing it.

“What seems to be the trouble, monsieur?” she heard him say.

“Stand aside,” came the answer. “We will inspect your carriage. There is a fugitive from justice wanted by His Majesty.”

“We carry no fugitives,” Hand answered. “In any case, this is a diplomatic vehicle belonging to the United States of Europe. We are not subject to your inspection.”

“This is not the United States of Europe,” the other said. “It will not go well with you to defy the orders of the king.”

“And he is not my king,” Hand answered.

Terrye Jo leaned forward and very carefully drew aside the curtain so that she could obtain a distant glimpse of the encounter. There were several mounted men, wearing the livery of gentlemen-in-waiting: this was not the Paris constabulary. Colonel Erik Haakonson Hand stood beside one of the harnessed horses, his back turned to the carriage; she could see that he had his coat drawn back and his hands were loose, though not resting either on his scabbarded sword or a holstered pistol.

“There are six of us, up-timer, and only one of you. Are you certain that you want to engage in this dance?”

“I am not an up-timer, monsieur,” Hand answered levelly. “I am Colonel Erik Hand, ambassador from the court of the Emperor of the United States of Europe. I have at my belt an excellent firearm. If you don’t recognize it; it is a reproduction of an up-time pistol, one of the finest weapons on the continent. With six of you, I shall have exactly enough bullets to make all of your mistresses weep at your graves. With due respect to your king, do
you
really want to engage in this dance?”

As Terrye Jo watched, Hand very slowly moved his hand toward his pistol. It was a hand-crafted repro of a Colt .45, beautifully made and no doubt in perfect working order.

If they knew what it could do, they’d think twice before taking him on. If they didn’t, they’d be in for a rude surprise. Meanwhile she was sitting—hiding!—in the carriage, watching a man she already knew to be brave showing exactly what he was made of.

“Our master will be informed of your defiance.”

“Present His Majesty with my compliments as well,” Hand said, his tone never changing. “May we pass?”

After a few moments she saw them turn and gallop away. She let the curtain drop into place and leaned back in her seat; presently the door opened and Hand climbed back up into the carriage. He rapped on the ceiling and it began to move slowly out onto the bridge.

“That was a hell of a bluff,” she said.

“You were watching.”

There was no point in denying it. “And listening. Do you really think you could have taken them all?”

“I am an excellent shot, Miss Tillman. But to be honest—no, I expect that I would not. That’s not the point, though, as I’m sure you realize. It was about whether they thought I could, and whether any of them as an individual was willing to take that chance.”

“That’s a huge risk.”

“Not really. Since I’ve come to Paris, I have been observing the men in Gaston’s royal guard. A number of them are recently promoted—many of those who served King Louis left or were dismissed. I have seen very few that seem like the type that would willingly risk life and limb for this king. But what would you have me do? Either they respect diplomatic immunity or they don’t. It was up to them to decide what the consequences might be, and they decided it was better to complain about my actions than to risk their lives. Happens all the time on the battlefield.”

“This wasn’t exactly a battlefield, of course.”

Hand half-smiled. “I disagree. Of course it was—just not the same kind. I think we’ve just chosen sides, and it’ll be up to Gustav and the council to decide if I’ve done the right thing. But I was ordered to get you to safety, and I’ll be damned if some puffed-up French gentlemen were going to keep me from doing it.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Six months earlier, Sherrilyn had still been wondering how she’d ever get used to extended travel on horseback. But after the amount of time she’d spent in the saddle over the last few months, she realized that she’d actually gotten used to it. The other rangers didn’t even smirk as she dismounted, still feeling every mile in her bad knee.

It had taken them six days riding at speed, sleeping too little and pushing their mounts too hard, to cover the distance from Pau to Paris. In the end she’d left one squad of Rangers behind with Turenne—six sharpshooters and six loaders—leaving her with thirty-six men to escort the comte de Brassac, Monsieur Servien and Brassac’s three manservants along the route.

Brassac had a nobleman’s experience and endurance, though Sherrilyn had had her doubts at the outset. For his part, Servien was very resilient for a man who looked as if he’d spent most of his life behind a desk. The servants—especially the footman and the clerk—had a rough time of it, and even the gentleman-usher, or whatever he was, didn’t seem up to the task.

She wasn’t terribly sympathetic, and neither were her troops. The comte decided that he needed to get to Paris in a hell of a hurry, and that was what they were going to do. No one seemed interested in getting in the way of forty-odd riders anyway.