1636: The Cardinal Virtues (36 page)
Read 1636: The Cardinal Virtues Online
Authors: Eric Flint,Walter H Hunt
Tags: #Fiction, #Alternative History, #Science Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General
They reached the city by night, in a steady warm drizzle that seemed to seep in everywhere. The rangers were a fairly steady lot, not really given to complaining—but after a long day’s ride, mud and sweat made everyone irritable. The lead squad commander, an old veteran named Jeannin, rode up to Sherrilyn after they passed through the Porte Saint-Jacques and said, “I thought we were going to the comte’s townhouse.”
“He has other plans.”
“Oh,
oui
? Maybe you’d like to let us know, Colonel?”
“We’re going to the Hôtel du Condé. It’s the home of one of the comte’s friends in this secret company.”
“Condé?” Jeannin cocked his head, and a stream of rain ran off it onto his buff coat. “The prince?”
“I guess so.”
“Well then,” the man answered. “At least we’ll eat well.”
The Hôtel du Condé was an impressive structure, more a sort of little fortress than what Sherrilyn would have called a townhouse. She hadn’t been to Paris before, and it was remarkable that there could be a private stronghold like that covering a few city blocks in the midst of shops and tenements; but it was plenty big enough for the troop to ride in through a gate into a wide courtyard. Grooms were ready to take their horses, and Brassac, his gentleman, Servien and Sherrilyn were escorted under an archway and into a mud room where they could clean off their boots and arrange themselves to meet with the prince.
They weren’t kept waiting very long. Instead of being brought to an audience chamber, they were taken to a small private drawing room on the first floor, just above where they’d entered; it was decorated with hunting trophies and shields bearing the Condé arms: a blue shield with
fleurs-de-lys
crossed by a red diagonal bar. After admitting them, a servant bowed himself out and left the visitors with a middle-aged man—Prince Condé himself—who was pouring wine at a sideboard.
“
Vieux
Louis,” Condé said, turning to face them. He was a striking man in middle age, trim and lean, with a carefully trimmed beard and broad moustaches. He walked across the room and embraced Brassac, who was faintly smiling. “You are too old to be riding so far in the rain.”
“I am young enough,” Brassac said. “May I present Monsieur Étienne Servien, who I believe you know, and Colonel Sherrilyn Maddox, who I believe you do not. His Highness insists on calling me
vieux Louis
—I have the honor to be seven years older.” The comte did not introduce his gentleman, who took up a position at the sideboard, ready to pour.
“Servien,” Condé said. “I understand you have some tales to tell.”
“When Your Highness is disposed to hear them,” Servien said.
“And Colonel Maddox.” Condé looked Sherrilyn up and down. “An up-timer. You have been in the service of Marshal Turenne, as I understand.”
“He found something for me to do, Sire.”
“Good. But I forget my manners. Please be seated,” Condé said. “I can have a fire built up for you,” he said to Brassac, his stern expression betraying the slightest grin.
“I’m sweating like a pig as it is,” Brassac said, taking a comfortable armchair at the prince’s gesture. “But I could do with a cup of that wine.”
When they were seated, Condé leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ve heard about Joseph.”
“Still no word?”
“Nothing definitive. I know more than I did: he and the young guardsman d’Aubisson were taken to the Châtelet on the orders of Queen Marie, who seemed insistent on knowing whether your master is still alive.” Condé nodded toward Servien.
“Is d’Aubisson—” Servien began.
“He is under the protection of this house,” Condé said. “He escaped and came here to tell me what had happened. Unfortunately, he was also forced to give up certain other information.”
“Such as?”
“The location of our sanctuary,” Condé answered. “D’Angoumois, the prior, was none too happy to have Gaston’s guards stomping around, but they seemed to have no compunction about threatening him.”
“Do they know the identity of all of the Company now?”
“Regrettably, yes. But neither that information nor any other revelations by our young friend gave them the answer they really wanted—
is Cardinal Richelieu still alive?
”
“Well,” Brassac said, cradling his wine-cup in his hands, “
is
he?”
“Servien?” Condé said.
“I only know that when I left his side, I did not expect to see him again in this life, Highness,” Servien answered. “He was gravely wounded. I saw it happen, and I know who delivered the blow.”
“So do I,” Condé said. “And as I understand it, the culprit is now in the company of Queen Anne—in Brussels.”
Servien’s usually calm expression was broken in an instant. “Does she know?”
Sherrilyn wasn’t sure she followed the exchange. “What—”
“Apparently she does,” Condé said. “She knows, Colonel Maddox, that Monsieur le duc is the man who killed her husband. Of course, everyone knows it now: Gaston has caused the identity of the regicide to be declaimed from every street-corner in Paris. César de Vendôme—my cousin—is called traitor by royal decree.”
“Oh,” Sherrilyn said.
Well, girl, you sound pretty stupid,
she thought.
Maybe I should go hang out with the grooms.
“Regarding Joseph. The cardinal de Tremblay,” Brassac said. “Is there no information? What did d’Aubisson say?”
“He did not see him except once—when he was brought into the cell where Tremblay had been placed. He was then taken away and . . . questioned.”
“Violently, no doubt,” Brassac said.
“Nothing that a young man can’t survive. Tremblay, however, is not a young man. But I still wonder at the audacity.”
“We speak of Queen Marie.”
“We do,” Condé agreed. “And I fear the worst: that he was questioned in a way that an older man could not survive. Gaston will answer for this,
vieux Louis
, and all the rest. You have my word on it.”
“Have you confronted him?”
“No, not yet. I thought to wait until you arrived. Between Vendôme’s defection, the fiasco with the tercios down in Béarn, and Anne’s escape to Brussels, I would think that our self-styled king should be about at the breaking point.”
“He won’t break,” Servien said. “Sire, if you think that Monsieur Gaston will back down because of circumstance, I regret to say that you underestimate his stubbornness. He is dangerous—especially when cornered. And as long as he occupies the throne and wears the crown, he continues to enjoy power.”
“There is one other thing,” Condé said, looking at Sherrilyn. “Gaston has decided that up-timers are, in general, suspect. An up-timer nurse was at the birth of his nephew—the rightful king of France; Marshal Turenne employs them; and he has issued a warrant for the arrest of the up-timer whom he employed for radio transmissions.”
“Who’s that?”
Condé thought for a moment, then said, “I do not know the woman’s full name; I saw her in passing at the coronation in Reims. Tillman, perhaps? Mademoiselle Tillman?”
“Terrye Jo Tillman?” Sherrilyn said.
“I believe that is correct. I am informed she was working in an office in the Rue Saint-Antoine.”
“Damn.”
“Colonel?” Brassac asked. “Do you know this person?”
Sherrilyn smiled. “In my former career I was a teacher. I taught Phys. Ed.—I had Terrye Jo in a class. She was always a slacker—she didn’t want to try hard. I always had to send her off to run extra as punishment. She hated me.”
“I daresay that is all in the past now,” Brassac said. “Or the future. You up-timers have made simple phrases complicated.”
“I don’t know. That’s the sort of grudge that lasts a lifetime, even if you get thrown back into the past. So—is Terrye Jo in prison now?”
“Perhaps.”
“We’re going to have to break her out,” Sherrilyn said. “Whether she still hates me or not, no American is going to rot in a French prison because some king sees her as an enemy.”
“Break her . . . Colonel,” Condé said, “are you suggesting that we
attack a prison
to rescue one person?”
“Yes,” Sherrilyn answered at once. The others in the room did not respond; there was a sort of stunned silence. “What?”
“Colonel,” Brassac said, “consider that I am a peer of the realm; his Highness our host is a prince of the blood; and Monsieur Servien was, until recently, an
intendant
in service with the head of the
Conseil du Roi
. We are not inclined toward—”
“Prison breaks.”
“Just so.”
“So you’re telling me that I’m going to have to do it myself.”
“No,” Condé said. “We are telling you that whatever activities you found ready to hand as a member of the . . . Wrecking Crew? . . . are things not done by . . .”
“Regular employees.”
“You seem dubious,” Condé said. “But yes: it is not a course of action we can pursue, and it would not reflect well upon you to act alone. Or on us.”
“Fine. I get it. But what
are
we going to do?”
“
We
will do nothing. The matter is in the hands of the ambassador from the USE. If you have concerns, you should express them to him directly,” Condé answered. “You will repair to the embassy at once. You may be in great danger.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“No, mademoiselle,” Condé said, “you can not. Not against royal troops. In almost every scenario, you wind up dead or imprisoned.”
“So you want me to just . . . run and hide at the USE embassy.”
Brassac and Condé exchanged a meaningful look.
“Yes,” Condé said at last. “At least for now. I am sure that soon the ground will have shifted again.”
Chapter 46
Paris
The council room was empty now; Gaston had even argued with Marguerite, who had come to console him. She did not take kindly to his harsh words, for which he would have to apologize later. He had not meant to be hurtful, but it was easier to lash out than to contain himself, even with the one person in whom he could completely place his trust.
He had ordered the heavy curtains parted so he could look out across Paris, but after a short while he had caused them to be closed again. There was nothing there to see.
“Everyone has turned against the king,” he said to no one in particular. “Everyone has turned against me.”
“Not everyone.”
He turned to see his mother, who had come into the council chamber; behind, two of his gentlemen-ushers stood helplessly, as if to indicate that there was nothing they could have done to prevent this force of nature from sweeping past them and into the room where the king stood, despite strict orders that he was not to be disturbed.
“I would prefer to be alone,” he said.
“We both know that’s not true,” Marie de Medici said. She stood with her hands folded in front of her, her expression demure. He recognized the stance and the expression—it was what she used when she wanted to be persuasive.
He was unmoved. “Madame, I believe that I am the best judge of my moods, and as I am your king—”
“
Cher
Gaston—”
“I think that ‘Your Majesty’ is a more appropriate address,” he interrupted.
She looked down at her hands, which she had unfolded and she now held at her sides, her hands forming fists.
“As you wish, Sire. But I would counsel you at this time. I have not turned against you, and I never would do so.”
“Of course you would not. And neither would the queen, and neither would my sweet daughter. But I am betrayed by many others, and I must consider what is best for France. I think that is best done alone.”
“You are the best judge of that . . . Your Majesty,” she said, looking up at him again. Her hands had folded again. “I would remind you, though, that there are few situations that have no precedent. Your father and brother both dealt with internal strife and wars abroad.”
“And both were murdered for their trouble: one by a lunatic and the other by a traitor.”
“I know,” Marie said. “I was there for the act of the first, and I am painfully familiar with the character of the second—no spawn of my loins, I will remind Your Highness. He was not to be trusted. He was
never
to be trusted.”
“So it seems.”
“I have heard a rumor that he has pledged his loyalty to Anne and the bastard whelp,” Marie said. “The foolish child, to let such a man be at all close to her.”
“It’s true.” Gaston rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “My brother’s murderer and my brother’s treasonous wife have made common cause with each other, and sit at table with the archduchess Isabella. It would not be so bad, but we have stumbled into a war with Spain.
“I must find a way out of this labyrinth, Mother.”
“I can help—”
“I must find my way alone.”
“That is not the path a wise king chooses, Gaston. Sire,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Councilors and advisors—”
“Have all
betrayed me
,” Gaston said savagely. Marie stepped back almost as if struck. With anger in his voice he continued, “It is as if a foul poison has crept into the very air of Paris and infested the stones of the palace. It is as if the coming of the Ring of Fire is the manifestation of the Devil Himself come to Earth, and all of his evil works are being spread through the accursed up-timers.
“Some people think this is a new age of wonders, a golden age of creation and invention and discovery. But it is all deviltry, just as my Spanish cousin Philip believes. It is like a banquet turned to ashes in my mouth. An up-timer attended Anne’s birth. Up-timers serve with the rebel Marshal Turenne. They conspire with enemies of France around every corner, under every rock, in every valley and atop every hill. I will
drive them from my realm
. Do you hear me, Mother? I will cleanse this land of all of its contagions: traitors, up-timers, heretics, and those who are unfaithful to the realm. To
my
realm.
“Are you listening to me?” he finished angrily, his finger pointing directly at his mother.
She hesitated, not sure what to say, and he took another step forward, making her step backward again, almost stumbling.
“If you love and serve me as you say, answer me now!” he shouted, his face suffused with anger.
“I . . . listen and hear, Sire,” she said, stepping backward again, and then without a further word she offered the slightest of curtseys and hurried out of the room, passing between the gentlemen-ushers, who still stood at the doorway, unsure whether to stay or go.
For his part, Gaston stood stiffly in place, his finger still pointing at the spot where his mother had been standing. He wanted to shout, to pound the table, to pick up something and hurl it—but he did none of those things as he took deep breaths, trying to leash his anger.
This is what it means to be king
, he thought.
This. To be mastered by events and to be betrayed by everyone who claims to serve you.
This is what you have wanted all of your life—what was denied you by accident of birth, what was withheld from you by a devil in a red soutane. This—crown and scepter, throne and court and title.
“Begone,” he said at last to the gentlemen-ushers. “And if you admit any person save my wife or daughter, I will have you drawn and quartered.”
◊ ◊ ◊
The last instructions Colonel Hand gave to Terrye Jo before leaving for the palace was: “Do not, under any circumstances, leave the embassy.”
She didn’t have to ask why. The embassy was, or was supposed to be, sovereign territory of the USE; invading the place was like declaring war. But a troop of royal guards, thirty or more, had assembled on the street outside the main entrance. They hadn’t tried to pass the gates or come into the courtyard, but they’d formed a cordon along the street. Hand had given orders for all of the other entrances to be locked and barred—no tradesmen would be arriving today, no servants would be leaving.
They were, effectively, under siege.
The USE’s ambassador had received a summons that morning from a delegation led by a priest. He had seemed very haughty, greeting Colonel Hand with the most minimal politeness in the foyer of the embassy. Terrye Jo had been upstairs on the balcony watching the exchange; the priest had glanced up and caught her eye and his frown had turned into a sort of cruel smile, the sort that teenage boys used to get when they had a trapped animal, a fox or raccoon, and there was no one around to tell them not to mistreat it.
She didn’t like being the trapped animal, so she returned the gaze with her best infantrywoman stare, imagining that she had a rifle trained on his forehead. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him look away.
“You were supposed to remain in your chambers,” Hand told her when he came up the stairs, parchment in hand.
“Yeah, well. Curious.”
“I think you unnerved him.”
“Good.”
“I believe I agree with you. But it doesn’t matter.” He held up the document. “Whatever the case, I have been summoned to the Louvre and an audience with His Highness. I was told that it would go much easier for everyone if I surrendered you.”
“I hope you told him to go to hell.”
“I did not,” Hand said. He smiled. “Not in so many words. Not because I did not wish to say so, but it was inappropriate to address a man of the cloth thus—especially one of royal blood.”
“That was a
prince
?”
“Gaston Henri de Bourbon, Bishop of Metz. We have previously made each other’s acquaintance. He is half-brother to the king—a legitimized bastard.”
“I didn’t like how he looked at me.”
“You are not the only one to express that emotion, Miss Tillman. He was in obscurity until Gaston took the throne and summoned him to the
Conseil du Roi
; I believe that he wishes to be made a cardinal.”
“So he asked you to hand me over and you told him no. Is that why you’re being called to the palace?”
“To be honest I’m not sure that is the extent of it. The summons demands that I provide an account of the activities of
all
up-timers in the realm—an obviously impossible task—and explain why all citizens of the USE should not be expelled.”
“This is because I worked for—”
“No, no, Miss Tillman. This is only partially about you, as I say. There is some greater thing at work here.”
“That’s diplomatically vague.”
“Miss Tillman.” He stood straight and clicked his heels. “I am, after all, a diplomat.”
