1636: The Cardinal Virtues (6 page)
Read 1636: The Cardinal Virtues Online
Authors: Eric Flint,Walter H Hunt
Tags: #Fiction, #Alternative History, #Science Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General
He fell silent for a moment. “I cannot change the past,” Gaston said at last. “But I can help mold the present. The up-timers can help with that task—even this soldier and telegrapher that you favor so much. But they will never be allies. They cannot be trusted, Victor. I trust that you will never,
ever
forget it.”
“Is that a royal command?”
“I am not your king.”
“No,” the duke said. “You are my brother-in-law, and heir to the French throne.” He walked back to the sideboard and poured another glass of wine. He took a moment to contemplate it, then drank it down like water.
Chapter 6
Turin
If it hadn’t previously been obvious to Terrye Jo, it became quite clear what it was about a few nights later.
It had been a cold, blustery day, rather like late fall in West Virginia. The kind of day that Ms. Maddox, when she was in a particularly cruel mood—which happened a lot—would make the girls in her P.E. class run outside, to be blown around by the wind or be forced to stand and do exercises and wait for the rain to pelt down on them. It was a part of West Virginia she didn’t miss. Ms. Maddox had joined up with Harry Lefferts, Terrye Jo had heard, and instead of operating a radio tower for a duke was off having adventures in Italy or somewhere. But P.E. class was miles and years away, lost forever.
The rain and sleet never quite came. By evening the wind had mostly driven the clouds away to leave it cold and clear, just about perfect weather for radio transmission. She had gone up to the operations room to check on things—and found Louis de Vendôme lounging there, with a few of his attendants standing by, looking bored.
“Mademoiselle Tillman,” he said, standing and sweeping his impressive hat from his head as he bowed. “I have been waiting for you.”
For some time
went unsaid.
“I’ve just come from dinner. If you needed me, Henri or Sylvie could have sent word.” The brother and sister, a clerk and seamstress in the duke’s staff at the Castello who had shown some aptitude, were on duty this evening. She’d come up to check on them—the weather was too good, so
someone
should be up here practicing.
“I bid them return to their duties. I beg your indulgence if I have overstepped.”
“Their duty is here, my lord. So, yes. Overstepped. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” She wanted to move past him into the room, but he didn’t seem inclined toward getting out of the way.
This could become ugly. Terrye Jo knew she could take care of herself, though with four or five of the Frenchmen it wasn’t a sure thing, even if they underestimated her—which they were likely to do. But still.
“As I say,” the nobleman said smoothly, “I beg your indulgence. I am expecting the imminent arrival of His Royal Highness.”
“Monsieur Gaston wants to inspect the premises?”
“That . . . and he wishes to make use of them. And you.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Your
professional
services,” Louis said, his perfect courtier’s smile twitching downward for a moment, then returning to its place. “He has arranged to communicate at this day and hour.”
Terrye Jo thought about it for at least long enough for the smile to start to disappear again, then she said, “All right. Fine. I assume he has a prepared call sign and frequency?”
“He has . . . whatever he needs. He will clarify all when he arrives.”
It was clear that Louis de Vendôme had no idea what she meant. It was a fair guess that he didn’t truly understand how radio communication worked at all, but that was just as well.
“I’d better fire up the set,” she said, and this time he stepped aside to admit her to the room.
It was cold as usual, but everything was in order and put away except for two freshly sharpened Number 2 pencils, a block of paper and the small penknife that substituted for a pencil sharpener. On the pad, in what looked like Henri’s hand, were the words
pardonnez-moi
, as if they’d be blamed for abandoning their posts. They were not accustomed to saying
no
to princes.
The set was an impressive-looking thing, with more decoration than any radio deserved to have, but that was the seventeenth century for you; inside it was really very simple. They’d installed a very sensitive dial with gradations that adjusted a tuning capacitor for the receiver. It was the responsibility of the on-duty operator to carefully note any transmissions and the dial position showing their frequency. The transmitter had a similar adjustment mechanism: the dial and a sliding bar controlled a spark-gap rig based on an old instruction book from the 1920s published by the National Bureau of Standards. They’d found it in Terrye Jo’s dad’s attic, where it had survived water damage and the Ring of Fire. The whole thing was powered by a bank of six Leyden-jar capacitors under the table, set in a wooden frame with a trough below, big enough to hold the contents of a jar if it should ever break. There were two knife switches on the front of the rig to engage or disengage them, and a sturdily built telegraph key mounted on a heavy wooden block, connected to the box by an insulated wire.
It would have been more impressive to have everything open. The transmitter, when powered, created a blue corona around the spark gap that was too bright to look at when the gain was all the way up—but maybe it was better to keep everything in a carved box to maintain the illusion, Wizard of Oz-like. It was for job security if nothing else. It was best that most folks, especially princes, didn’t realize just how simple it all was . . . in the right hands.
She put on a pair of earphones and plugged them into a jack on the front of the box. There was a little volume control on the earphone cord. She turned it up and slowly moved the dial to a known position to see if she could pick up the transmitter from Bern, just as a baseline.
Thus when Gaston d’Orleans arrived she didn’t notice. She knew that Louis was standing a few paces behind her at the door, as if he didn’t want to get any closer to the wizardry. Gaston, on the other hand, seemed to have no fear—and a childlike curiosity.
She reached for one of the pencils without looking, and instead of the familiar wooden shaft, she touched a smooth, warm hand. She jerked her hand back and stood up, pulling the earphones off her head.
“What remarkable instruments,” Gaston said, holding a Number 2 in his hand. “Tisond . . . Tisonger . . .”
“
Ticonderoga
,” Terrye Jo said, giving the “I” the proper long sound. “It’s an Indian name. Native North American.” She looked from Gaston to the small shelf that held two boxes of authentic up-timer pencils. When transcribing a telegraph message, a good old Number 2 was much more useful than a quill and ink.
“Ty-son-de . . .”
“Ti
con
deroga. There’s no cedilla under the c, Highness. I think there’s a small company in Magdeburg that has started to make pencils, but they’re not as good as the genuine article.” She thought about it for a moment and added, “if you’d like one I’d be happy to make you a present of it.”
“I graciously accept.” He gave his most charming smile, glancing at his loyal follower Louis. “But let me not disturb you. I assume circumstances are fortuitous for us to send a message this evening?”
“I’ll need some information.”
“Ah.” He reached into a sleeve and drew out a small rectangle of paper and handed it to her. “This is the . . . frequency? Yes. And the call sign.”
Terrye Jo nodded approvingly. Louis was leaning very slightly forward to see what was written, showing more curiosity than she would have credited him with. She set the card on the table in front of her and put the headphones back on. She slowly moved the dial to the frequency Gaston had indicated. There was some small amount of background noise, but it was in a relatively clear part of the radio spectrum—a good choice by whoever had picked it.
GJBF
, she sent.
GJBF, GJBF.
She wasn’t sure what the JBF was for—something something France, she supposed—but the G was probably for Gaston.
GJBF. CQ CQ.
CQ was the signal for anyone listening to respond.
She looked up at Gaston, who was watching intently. There was no immediate response; the frequency was quiet. She looked down at the card, and checked the position of the master dial. It was set correctly. He’d told her nothing about who might be waiting for the message. She imagined some guy, dressed like the prince, waiting by a set somewhere far away.
GJBF GJBF GJBF
, she sent again.
CQ CQ CQ.
She waited another several seconds and was just about to tell Monsieur Gaston that there was no response—and then she heard something. It was faint and halting, as if being transmitted by someone with little skill on a telegraph key. It certainly wasn’t a “fist” she recognized. To a trained operator, the “fist” was the style and pattern of a sender—not quite as unique as a fingerprint, but like the sound of a human voice, they could be told apart.
GJBF
, she heard.
SPAR SPAR KN.
It repeated once more, and she wrote it down on the pad and showed it to Gaston. SPAR was a call sign, one she didn’t recognize. But Gaston did.
“That is my servant in Paris,” he said, laying a finger on the pad. “SPAR. Well done, mademoiselle. Are they ready to send?”
“They’re waiting for you, Highness,” she answered. “That’s what the KN means.”
“Ah.
Bon.
Ask them about the queen.”
“All right . . . anything specific?” He didn’t answer, so she shrugged. She sent
GJBF SPAR COMMENT VA LA REINE? KN.
There was another long pause, and then slowly, almost painfully, there was a response, beginning with
SPAR GJBF
. She copied it down, letter by letter, onto the pad.
LA REINE A UNE POLICHINELLE DANS LE TIROIR
, she wrote.
The queen has . . .
something in the something, but she wasn’t sure. She sent
GJBF SPAR QSM
—
please send the last message again.
“Is there any—” Gaston said, and she held up her hand. She was fairly sure that princes weren’t used to having that happen, but she needed to hear what was being transmitted. The message was as before. When it had been fully transmitted again she lifted the pad and showed it to him.
Apparently whatever something was in the something, it meant something to Monsieur Gaston. His expression went pale, and then hardened into a tight-lipped anger.
“You’re sure that this message was sent, Mademoiselle Tillman. This
exact
message.”
“I had them repeat it. Your servant isn’t a very good telegrapher, but this is what he sent. I have no idea what it means.”
“A
polichinelle
is . . . a sort of puppet. A marionette. My servant says that the queen has a puppet in the drawer—it is a common expression. It means . . . that the queen is pregnant.”
Terrye Jo smiled. “A bun in the oven,” she said in English. “
Un p’tit pain dans le four
,” she translated. “I guess it doesn’t make any sense in French.”
“It is not an expression we use, mademoiselle. But yes, the sense would be the same.” He held the pad tightly, and for just a moment she thought he might slam it down or throw it at something. But instead he placed it on the desk and slowly, carefully adjusted the lace of his cuffs.
She heard
QSL
in her headphones.
Can you acknowledge receipt?
Without looking away from Gaston, she reached her hand to the telegraph key and sent,
GJBF SN.
ENTENDU. Understood.
“What was that, then?”
“I told them you’d gotten the message. What do you want me to send now?”
“Ask them . . . where is the queen now?”
Terrye Jo nodded, and turned again to face the radio set.
GJBF SPAR OU EST LA REINE? KN
, she sent.
SPAR GJBF RECLUSION HORS DE PARIS
.
“She is away from Paris,” she said. “In . . . seclusion?”
“But where?”
GJBF SPAR OU?
She sent, asking where.
SPAR GJBF UN GRAND SECRET SOUS LA ROBE ROUGE.
“I’m not sure what that means, Highness,” she said, showing him the pad again. “The secret is under . . .”
“
Beneath the red robe
,” Gaston said. “Richelieu. He has sent her somewhere in secret. He knows where she is, but my loyal servant does not. Very well. Send him . . . tell him that as he loves me, it is paramount that he locate her and report to me.
At once.
”
GJBF SPAR TROUVER LA REINE ET SIGNALER IMMEDIATEMENT
, she sent, and then added
IMMEDIATEMENT TOUT DE SUITE PAR ORDRE G
. She figured that would be enough for them to get the
at once
part of his orders.
SPAR GJBF ENTENDU SN.
“They got the message.”
“Good. Excellent.” He turned on his heel and walked to the door, then turned, as if he’d forgotten something.
“Was there anything else?” she asked.
“No. Not tonight . . . ah.” He looked at Louis. “Attend me,” he said. “But by all means pay her.”
Without turning, she reached for the key and sent
CL
—
closing down.
In her earphones she heard
SN
.
Louis reached into an inside pocket of his cloak and took out a small pouch which rattled. He dropped it onto a chair without a word and swept out after his master. Terrye Jo had a moment’s urge to pick it up and throw it at his head. The abrupt end to the conversation and the way he’d left money for her—not by handing it over but by leaving it behind—felt vaguely insulting.
Gaston had worked hard at charming her, but she was very much like a Number 2 pencil: a tool. This was an unequal relationship, and he’d just shown her who was the prince and who was the servant.
SN
, she thought.
I understand.
Chapter 7
Marseilles, Provence
“Now
that
is a view.”
Philippe de la Mothe-Houdancourt, governor of Bellegarde, leaned on the rampart of Florentine limestone that comprised the sea-facing wall of Notre-Dame de la Garde, basilica and fortress of Marseilles, and took a deep draught of sea air. From up here, a few hundred feet above the sprawl and stink of the city, the air was clear and the sky was deep blue. The sun sparkled on the Mediterranean Sea . . . and somewhere beyond to the west, over the horizon, was Spain.
“It is beautiful. When I think of my city, Philippe, I think of it this way.” Cosme de Valbelle, Seigneur de Brunelles, came up to stand by his young friend. “I’m surprised you’ve never been up here.”
“There are a great many places I have never been. This is quite a remarkable place: a fortress that is also a church.”
“The monks of Saint Victor didn’t want to give it up, but it’s a perfect place to build a fort. Our lord François thought so a century ago, and it’s been defending the city against all comers ever since—outsiders and insiders.”
“Do tell.”
“There have been plenty of intrigues in Marseilles over the years.”
“But none since it has become the firm possession of
la Famille Valbelle
, or so I understand.”
Valbelle smiled. “That’s more my great-uncle and father’s doing. Nowadays I merely offer good government and fair trade.” He made an adjustment to the lace on one cuff. “Everyone wins, even the Church.”
“I’m sure His Eminence is pleased.”
“You know very well that Cardinal Richelieu is a great friend to my family, and I am loyal to him and to King Louis. I have made certain that he knows that, and that our family is properly represented at court. But . . . you’re not here to question that, are you, Philippe?”
“No. Of course not. I am here on behalf of my lord Tour d’Auvergne, Marshal Turenne. Some of your vaunted commerce—” he waved a hand toward the port below—“provisions and equips our forces.”
“So you think there’ll be war?”
“My dear Cosme,” de la Mothe answered. “There is
always
war. In the best instance it is possible for men to bring it about on terms of their own choosing.”
“If it were up to me, the terms I would choose would be accommodation. War is bad for business, and we here in Marseilles gain nothing by fighting with Spain or Savoy or Naples or, honestly, anywhere else.” He sighed. “But if the cardinal wills it, then we must needs obey.”
De la Mothe looked back out across the city. Valbelle was a politician: a former
conseil
of the city, now merely a private citizen. But no one achieved any office in Marseilles without his help or consent. So it had been for decades. Cosme de Valbelle, the second of the name, had been elected for the first time in 1618 when he was in his early forties, and for a second, shorter term a few years ago. Now the first consulship was in the hands of the Sieur d’Aiglun, a bland nonentity. But no one—not de la Mothe, not Turenne, and certainly not the cardinal himself—had any illusions about who really ran the city.
Valbelle loved to perform the stately pavane, the game of
bons mots
, rather than get to the point. De la Mothe, for his part, had spent too much time in military service—fifteen years, man and boy—to be anything less than direct; but he knew that to achieve anything with Valbelle meant to play the game.
“Your note said that you had someone you wanted me to meet.”
“Yes. It’s part of the reason I invited you to la Garde. She’s up here receiving some sort of medical treatment from the priory’s hospitaller; she didn’t trust the quacks and frauds down in the city.”
“‘She’?”
“Yes,
she
. The lady is an
up-timer
, Philippe. And a very fierce example of that unusual race. I’m sure you’ll find her interesting.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Interesting
was hardly enough to describe how Philippe de la Mothe-Houdancourt found Sherrilyn Maddox when he first met her that soft early-autumn day in the fortress-priory above Marseilles. She truly was fierce.
When Valbelle led him into the priory, passing beneath the escutcheon of François I and the lamb of the Apostle John bearing the Christian banner, the first thing he heard was the sound of feet on stone. He was on his guard at once, and nearly drew his blade when someone came running along the vaulted gallery. The person was in loose-fitting clothing with a queue of hair neatly tied behind, and came to a halt a few paces away, bent over slightly with hands on thighs, panting as if the exercise had been difficult.
He removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and looked at Valbelle, perplexed.
“Give it a moment,” the older man said quietly.
De la Mothe said nothing and waited. At last the other person stood up straight. Though dressed in a long-sleeved blouse and some sort of pantaloons, he could see at once that it was a woman. Not unattractive, but she had clearly made no particular effort to enhance her appearance. Without saying a word—or asking leave of either Valbelle or himself—she walked somewhat gingerly to a stone bench that ran along the gallery and dropped to a seat.
“Sorry,” she managed. “Still trying to get back in shape.”
De la Mothe understood the words, but wasn’t sure of the meaning. “Allow me to present myself,” he said at last. “I am Philippe, Comte de la Mothe-Houdancourt, Governor of Bellegarde, General of France.” He made a leg.
“Sherrilyn Maddox,” she said. “Thuringian Rifles. Glad to meet you.” She extended her hand, and when he took it with the intent of offering his lips she grabbed his palm and shook it.
When this unusual introduction was over, she let her hand fall to her sides and looked him up and down. De la Mothe was dressed in proper attire that befit a count. He had left off his breastplate and other armor, retaining only his blade—and not the one he used when fighting with the cavalry. He had donned his best wig, and bore a decoration of the
chevau-légers
that he had earned at Saint-Martin-de-Ré a decade before.
“I hope I’ve not offended you, Comte. Monsieur. I’m not sure what title I should use.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Madame—Mademoiselle—”
“Just call me Sherrilyn. My students at Grantville High had to call me ‘Ms. Maddox,’ but most people just stick to my first name.”
“Then you may call me Philippe.”
“Suits me fine,” she answered. “Would you sit down, Philippe? Monsieur Valbelle said you had something you wanted to talk to me about. I was just running a few laps—this knee” she slapped one of her legs—“has been giving me problems, and I’m not a damn bit of good to anyone if I don’t get back to form. No less than Harry Lefferts took me off the first team.”
“Ah,” de la Mothe said. “
That
is a name I know.” He looked at Valbelle, and then stepped over to the bench and sat near the up-timer.
Lefferts
was a well-known troublemaker, who had made the acquaintance of the cardinal and had been tied to all kinds of mischief since the Ring of Fire. From what he heard, there were even young bravos in the Italian cities who styled themselves after him—
lefferti
, they called themselves.
“Everyone knows Harry and his Wrecking Crew,” Sherrilyn said. “Well, that’s pretty much over. The band has broken up, and there’s no plan to get it back together. To be honest, Comte—Philippe—I’m a bit at loose ends right now.”
De la Mothe was struggling with the idiom and looked up at Valbelle—but the older man had walked away along the gallery, leaving him in the company of the up-timer. “I’m . . . not sure what you mean. But if you are presently without a position, I expect that I could find something for someone of your talents to do.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“You mentioned the Thuringian Rifles. And the, eh, ‘Wrecking Crew.’ I am certain that your weapons expertise would be invaluable to us.”
“And by ‘us,’ you mean . . .”
“Myself and my commander. Henri Tour d’Auvergne. General Turenne.”
“
Turenne
?” She frowned. “The guy who carried out the raid against our oil fields at Wietze? The guy whose troops killed Quentin Underwood?”
De la Mothe took a deep breath. “. . . Yes. He did command the raid on Wietze two years ago.”
“I’m not sure I’m fond of the idea of
working
for him. Of course, you’re not the enemy anymore, are you? Now we’re friends with the French. And Quentin Underwood was a dick who got caught up in our German vacation. Still, I’d have to consider the merits of the idea.”
“My lord of Turenne has no designs on your USE, Sherrilyn, nor on the armies of your allies. We
know
who the enemy is.”
“And who might that be?”
“Spain.”
“Huh. And where is Turenne now?”
“His army is encamped outside of Lyon. The—king—has ordered him south to keep watch on the Spanish. We believe that the Count-Duke de Olivares, the Spanish King’s minister, is preparing an invasion of France in cooperation with . . . certain elements.”
“But not the USE.”
“No. Certainly
not
. Olivares’ chief ally is—may be—the king’s brother. Monsieur Gaston. We do not know his whereabouts. He was most recently in Lorraine and the Franche-Comté, but he has relocated—possibly to Madrid, or even Rome. He has a peculiar skill at making trouble.”
“Sounds like Harry Lefferts.”
“I can see the comparison,” de la Mothe said. “But as versatile as your friend Lefferts might be, Monsieur Gaston is infinitely more devious. And he plays at intrigues with the crown of a kingdom at stake. Our task is to help stop that.”
“How do you expect me to help?”
“Over the past two and a half years, my lord of Turenne has been slowly retraining a body of troops to use the newer weapons that up-time technology has made possible. It has not been an easy task: skills and habits borne of a lifetime cannot be easily discarded.”
“You did well enough at Wietze,” she snapped. “Your General Turenne seemed to know exactly what the hell he was doing there, and he got what he wanted.”
“Yes, that is true, mademoiselle. Sherrilyn. But a raid is not a military campaign, and a small, fast-moving force is not the same as an army. The Spanish are still exceptionally well-armed and numerous and muskets can kill a soldier just as dead as a Cardinal rifle. We learned a great deal from the Wietze raid, but many of those under arms were not a part of that action.
“We could use someone with your skill and expertise to help train them, to cure their bad habits and teach them good ones. And also to pick out . . . the best of them for particular duties.”
Sherrilyn laughed. “You want me to train down-timer soldiers. That’s rich. You expect a bunch of professional soldiers to listen to
me
tell them what to do?”
“Monsieur de Valbelle told me that before the Ring of Fire you had been a teacher. Surely there are some aspects of that experience that would be helpful.”
“I taught girls’ P.E. at Grantville High,” Sherrilyn said. “I blew a whistle and got a bunch of girls in line so they could do exercises and play basketball. I hardly think it’s the same.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . because they were teenage
girls
, Philippe, and they were afraid of me. These men aren’t likely to see me in the same way.”
“You might be surprised.”
Sherrilyn leaned her elbows on her thighs and shook her head so that her hair, tied back in its queue, swung back and forth. “Philippe, I was born in 1965. For the last four years I’ve been in the seventeenth century, and unless the same crazy thing that put me here comes along and puts me back, I’m going to spend the rest of my life here. I get surprised pretty much every day, usually in a bad way, but sometimes . . .”
She gave him an appraising look, from wig to boots. He wasn’t a bad looking man; he was a little younger than she was, and had obviously made an effort to look good for the day—maybe even for this meeting. He smelled less like the average seventeenth-century nobleman than she expected, and other than the Durante nose and a few pox pockmarks—universal, other than for those who had gotten vaccinated in the last few years—he was easy to look at.
“Sometimes,” she said, “the surprise is a good one.”
“So you will accept.”
“I didn’t say that. But I’ll think about it. How much time do I have to decide?”
“I leave Marseilles the day after tomorrow. We can have a spare horse . . . or two, if you require a lady’s maid to travel with you.”
“A lady’s maid? Are you serious?”
He looked serious. In fact, he looked embarrassed at her reaction. “It is a few days’ ride back to Lyon, Mademoiselle Sherrilyn, and you would be in the company of . . . the entourage would be all men, other than you.”
“So?”
“It is only that there is some . . . possible appearance of impropriety.”
“After the Wrecking Crew I don’t think there’s anything more improper that can happen to my appearance. I don’t have a ‘lady’s maid,’ Philippe, and don’t know what I’d do with one. And if you’re worried about someone of your troop making, what, an inappropriate advance . . . if they survive the experience, they’ll survive with two broken arms. Or legs. Whichever is more painful, especially on horseback. Maybe one of each.”
De la Mothe couldn’t help but smile. “I think you mean it.”
“Damn straight.”
“Very well.” He stood and sketched a bow. Valbelle, the perfect courtier, seemed to already realize that the interview was over, and was walking slowly back to meet him. “I shall await your reply.”
