1633

by David Weber

  The prince's chest seemed to swell. "By then, I can and will have a sizeable force back in the field. Or, I should say, behind fortifications in northern Gelderland and Overijssel. The Spanish will be back to a grinding war of attrition—and this, after having paid a heavy price in blood and treasure for what they have gained already. Cardinal Richelieu used them as well as us, you know. By all accounts, it was the Spanish—not the French or the English—who paid the butcher's bill at Dunkirk."

  "But you do not think the cardinal-infante will want to negotiate a settlement?"

  "Not right away, no. Why should he? He's come this far on audacity and boldness, why should he stop? If he were Spinola, canny from decades of warfare, yes. But he is a young prince, Rebecca—and still undefeated. He will inevitably go for the final and most dramatic stroke, hoping thereby to end the thing entirely on Spanish terms."

  "Take Amsterdam."

  "Precisely. And I will use that audacity for my own ends. Draw him into a siege of Amsterdam, which will tie him up and give me the time I need to fortify what is left to me in the eastern provinces."

  "How long can you maintain that situation?" she asked, frowning. "I am not a soldier, to be sure. But . . . with only Overijssel left and part of Gelderland . . . Spanish to the south, Danes to the north—the French everywhere, it seems—"

  "Not everywhere, Rebecca." Frederik Hendrik cleared his throat. "As I recall, central Germany is still in the hands of the king of Sweden. Whom the French—and Danes—have now taken it upon themselves to attack also. With the Spanish—and English—having been so foolish as to sign their names to the enterprise."

  "But—" She broke off.

  The prince was smiling gently. "Yes, yes. I realize that, at the moment, things look rather bleak for Gustav Adolf also. But—unlike me—he has not already lost most of his realm. And—also unlike me—he has been fortunate enough, or wise enough, not to have his populace paralyzed by endless disputes over religious doctrine. Indeed, from what I can see, he seems to be increasingly drawn toward your American-style . . . what shall I call it? 'Arminianism Excelsior'?"

  Rebecca laughed. "Hardly that, Frederik Hendrik! Arminianism is a religious doctrine itself. What the Americans preach—and practice—is something far simpler. 'The separation of church and state,' they call it. Worship whatever you will, however you will, and do so in peace. The state has no business in it—nor, on the other side, do the churches have any business meddling in state affairs."

  The prince grunted. "A month ago—a week ago, even—I would have said you were mad. And I am considered—accused, as often as not—of being an Arminian myself. Now . . ."

  For a moment, he studied the same painting he had studied the day before. "Odd, isn't it? The way your husband seems to force people to adopt his own practices in order to fight them. I've been getting continual reports, you know. The Dutch navy may be destroyed, but Dutch merchant vessels continue to ply their trade. It seems that Richelieu is setting up what he calls 'religious havens' in the northern towns and ports of France. Hoping, no doubt, to draw Protestant workmen there in order to build his own armaments industry. And now I hear that Earl Strafford has put a complete stop to any attempts to enforce strict religious adherence in England. Scotland too—even Ireland, if the reports are correct."

  He turned back to her, smiling. "Of course, what else can he do? He—like every statesman in Europe now, probably even the Tsar of Russia—knows what history is supposed to bring. So, trying to stop it . . . ha!"

  He slapped his hands on his knees. "That is my plan. In the long run, obviously, I am counting on Gustav Adolf to humble my enemies. In the short run, I can simply try to hold on to what I can—Amsterdam above all else. To be honest, Rebecca, I do not see what you and the United States can do for me in the short run. Throw your support behind the king of Sweden, of course, which I am sure you will be doing. I think you would be wise, therefore, to leave Amsterdam now. For the next few days, I am fairly confident I can get you safely back to Germany. But once the siege closes in, you will be trapped here for months."

  Rebecca took a deep breath. "Well, actually, that is what I came here to tell you. I discussed this with my husband last night—no, you are right, we do not need great edifices for all forms of radio—and we are agreed." She took another deep breath. "I, and the entire delegation, will remain here in Amsterdam. If for no other reason, both Michael and I feel that will be a dramatic public gesture making clear that the United States stands firmly with the United Provinces and has confidence in your survival."

  "As dramatic as possible," grunted the prince. "The wife of the President herself. But—" He winced. "Rebecca, the risk . . . if I did not make it clear yesterday, the siege is going to be terrible. Disease alone—"

  "That," said Rebecca firmly, "is in fact the main reason I am staying. We cannot do much, obviously, to help you fight your Spanish enemies. Not directly, at any rate. But we can do something about the rest of it."

  After she finished explaining the American proposal, Frederik Hendrik arose and went over to the painting. He studied it for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back, and then moved over to the next painting on the walls.

  "It's what they never show, you know. You can find everything else in these paintings. Portraits, scenes of daily life—even the carnage of war. Occasionally, perhaps—not often—someone is bold enough to allow the painter to portray the smallpox scars. But never the rest of it. Never the endless supply of infants slid into graves before their first birthday. Never the quiet grief of parents who have seen as many children die as live. Never—not once, that I can recall—a portrait of a mother sitting by the bed of a three-year-old child. Just watching—nothing else to do—while Death spreads its pitiless wings."

  His voice became a bit shaky. "It has been the silent terror of the world since time began." When he turned back to face her, his cheeks were hollow—but his eyes seemed bright. "Dear God in Heaven," he whispered, "you can do this?"

  For once in her life, Rebecca would meet the arrogance of nobility on its own terms. She lifted her head and spoke in as haughty a manner as she could manage. "Yes, Prince of Orange. A world forged by commoners can do what kings and princes and dukes and earls and cardinals and archbishops never could. Can give life to children, where you could only watch them die." Coldly: "Your own faces—often enough—scarred and pitted beneath the costumes and the cloaks and the crowns."

  He did not flinch from the rebuke in her tone. He did not even lower his eyes.

  "Give me that, Rebecca, and even I might be convinced." He grinned suddenly. "Who knows? I might even abdicate my title."

  Rebecca laughed. Prince he might be, but she liked this man. "I hardly think that would be the best tactic. Certainly not at the moment! If you wish to hold Amsterdam, you will need the full support of its commoners. You know that as well as I do—better, I imagine."

  "As if I'd have much choice! Most of the real oligarchs have packed up their bags and already left. There aren't more than a handful of regents still in the city. The burghers who remain—lots of them, of course—are the small ones. Their wealth depends on their little shops and enterprises, with them running it with their own brains and hands. No going into comfortable exile for them—much less the city's artisans and apprentices and common seamen."

  Rebecca nodded. "A commoner city—but with the authority and legitimacy of the prince of Orange to give them confidence. Quite a tough combination to crack in a siege, I would think."

  The prince was back in full measure, now. Frederik Henrik's next words came with ringing confidence. "That same combination broke the butcher Alva at the siege of Middelburg—and then again, at Leiden." Proudly: "My father, that was."

  "Indeed. And you are already well liked by the residents of Amsterdam. Far more so, if you will pardon my frankness, than was your intolerant half-brother Mauritz. Which brings me to the next point. As I am sure you know—better than I do—the existing structure of author
ity in the city is, ah—"

  "As ragged as a pauper's cloak. Half the town council has already fled. Half the remainder will have done so within three days. For all practical purposes, the city is falling under the control of the civic militia. Which—" His head rose a bit. "—is most favorably inclined to the House of Orange. So I can't say I'm all that sorry to see the rats scampering away. Frankly, it will make things easier for me."

  Rebecca cleared her throat. "Easier still, I think, if the growing militant sentiment of the city is channeled, organized, given—at least for many—a clarion call and symbol of resistance." She cleared her throat again. "This is, ah, somewhat delicate . . ."

  * * *

  When Rebecca finished, the prince broke into laughter.

  "Richter? You brought that lunatic here with you?"

  "She is not a lunatic. Quite a dear friend of mine, as a matter of fact." Rebecca shifted a bit in her chair. "I grant you, she has a reputation. Grant you, also, the reputation is not entirely undeserved."

  "Ha! Which is the reason, of course, that you never mentioned her name when you arrived. 'One of my servants,' I believe you said, if I recall my spies' reports correctly."

  There didn't seem to be any point to denying that, so Rebecca didn't bother to try. Besides, the prince didn't really seem angry. Amused, more than anything else.

  "Frederik Hendrik, she is a superb organizer. Public orator too, I might add. And you will need that organization, Prince. The chemical substances we will bring to the city—smuggle them in somehow; my husband says he can do it—are not a magic wand. They need to be dispensed in a rational and organized manner, and combined with measures—strict measures—of public sanitation. No civic militia is set up to oversee something like that. Whereas the Committees of Correspondence can and will."

  She ran her hands down her thighs, smoothing the rich fabric. "I do not propose that you acknowledge her publicly, of course, or give the Committees themselves any official sanction. That would be most indelicate, given your need to maintain the loyalty of the noblemen in Overijssel. But here in Amsterdam . . ."

  The prince leaned back in his chair, his eyes growing slightly unfocused. "Yessss . . . The men guarding the walls will be simple workmen, more often than not. Many of them, apprentices. Essential to keep their spirits up, I agree. Will agree further, for that matter, that I wouldn't mind at all seeing the civic militia organized along less purely military lines." He frowned. "That always starts causing its own trouble, the longer a siege goes on. The soldiers start taking advantage . . . Still . . ."

  He chuckled. "Talk about a Devil's bargain! You offer to free me from plague, with one hand, while handing me a different sort of epidemic on the other."

  Many times, Rebecca had found Gretchen's unrelenting attitudes somewhat annoying. But now, she discovered—not for the first time—that annoyance only went so far. Much as she liked this particular nobleman, she had no doubt at all where she stood in the great chasm which ran through European politics.

  "Call it that if you will," she said, as harshly as she'd ever spoken in her life. "But that 'epidemic' is, in the end, the one which can cure the other. Choose, then, Prince of Orange."

  He didn't hesitate for more than a few seconds. "Oh, I'll take my chances with Richter. One enemy at a time."

  Rebecca smiled. "Exactly what my husband says."

  After she returned to the U.S. delegation's quarters, Rebecca plopped herself onto a couch next to Gretchen. "You're on," she said.

  Gretchen sniffed. Rebecca smiled. "I knew you'd wait for permission." Her eyes were drawn to the door leading to the kitchen. There seemed to be an unusual amount of noise coming from within.

  "We have guests?"

  "Three apprentices," Gretchen replied. "Two journeymen also. All employed in the copper-working shops here in Amsterdam. Heinrich and I met them yesterday. And the daughter of the master craftsman one of the journeymen works for. They're affianced."

  That was a common enough situation. What was not common, of course, was to have such a group gathered in the kitchen of what was, technically, a prestigious and snooty foreign delegation's quarters. Rebecca didn't know whether to sigh or giggle.

  She giggled. Impossible not to, given the bet she'd made with Frederik Henrik.

  "By the way," she added casually, fluffing her hair, "the prince of Orange says he'd like to meet you. He's quite curious. It would have to be a very discreet meeting, of course, so you'd need to use the servants' entrance."

  "The prince of Orange can kiss my sweet German ass. Discreet is fine. He can wear a disguise. The servants' entrance is out."

  "Exactly what I told the prince you'd say," said Rebecca cheerfully. "Now what shall I spend the money I won on?"

  "With a siege coming? Get salted herring."

  PART V

  The gold mosaic of a wall

  Chapter 33

  "Oh, for the love of God, husband!" exclaimed Amalie Elizabeth. The wife of the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel rose from her chair and stalked over to a nearby desk. Angrily pulling open a drawer, she withdrew a thick sheaf of letters and waved it in his direction.

  "How much longer will you nurse these foolish dreams of yours? Do you really think these—" Here she shook the letters fiercely. "These posturers! These cretins! These petty—"

  She broke off, slapping the letters down on the table and taking several deep breaths. Her pretty face was flushed with anger.

  Wilhelm V of Hesse-Kassel grimaced. Seated next to him on the luxurious couch in the salon, Wilhelm of Saxe-Weimar tried to keep himself from smiling.

  "Those are, ah . . ."

  Amalie gave him a sour glance. "You know perfectly well what they are, Wilhelm, even if you've never seen them. My husband here—" She jiggled the letters in the direction of the landgrave. "—has been trying for a year now to get the nobility of the Confederated Principalities of Europe to form a common bloc. The smaller princes and nobles, that is. Squeezed the way we are between the king of Sweden, the princes of Saxony and Brandenburg—now, most of all, by the Americans—"

  She broke off, sighing. "I told him from the beginning it was pointless. May as well try to herd cats. Particularly vain and lazy and stupid cats, to boot."

  The landgrave avoided her stony gaze. "And to what end?" she demanded. "Would you like to know, Wilhelm? Here, I'll read some of them to you! You're an old and close friend of the family, so why not?"

  Hesse-Kassel scowled, but did quite dare to object. The landgravine picked up the top letter from the pile and began reading.

  "This one is from—well, never mind—but it's a report of a conversation at a dinner table, shortly after my husband's first circular letter went out. Sophia von Markenfeld is reported to have said to her husband: 'Albrecht, I wouldn't trust this for a moment. The count of Sommersburg is certain to be allied to Hesse-Kassel. And do you remember how Sommersburg cheated me out of great-aunt Leopoldine's garnet-and-pearl necklace that she always said that I should have, but he put it into the probate and his daughter Louisa ended up with it?'

  "Then, needless to say, Georg von Gluecksburg jumped in—oh, yes, Wilhelm, of course he was there—do you think he wouldn't have been—"

  It was Saxe-Weimar's turn to grimace. Von Gluecksburg bore a remarkable physical resemblance to a piglet. The resemblance was by no means superficial.

  Amalie continued:

  "—said to his brother, 'Ernst, I wouldn't go along with this if I were you. The Sommersburgs were also very unhelpful in the matter of the border between Craichsbach and Altfelden. With a new administration, we can refile the litigation and request a rehearing.' "

  Hesse-Kassel sighed. Wilhelm heard him mutter something about incest. It was true enough—certainly on a political level. The nobility of Thuringia, Saxony, northern Franconia, and eastern Hessia consisted of families which had intermarried so many times that the resultant feuds were as rancorous and never-ending as they were picayune.

  Amalie had picked up
another letter. "This one is too long to quote, but the gist of it is that there was a meeting at Herzfeld to discuss my husband's circular, but only about half of those invited came. The many Heinrichs of the Reuss lines, as you know, mostly hold land east of Jena and so they were more concerned with what was happening in Albertine Saxony. The two lines of Schwarzburgs apparently decided to maintain a position of neutrality for the time being, while the Ernestine Wettins—they were led by you, of course, Wilhelm—sent a message announcing they were thinking of throwing in their lot with King Gustavus Adolphus and the new United States. So none of them bothered to show up at all. Good for you."

  She scanned down more of the letter. "Of the ones that came, the wife of the count von Morsburg and her sister-in-law, who are also cousins, revisited—for what is it, now? the fortieth time?—the long-discussed issue of which one had brought the more valuable dowry to her marriage." She barked a sarcastic laugh. "And—it failed only this!—Johann von Rechberg and Margrave Christoph von Thuen continued the tension that has marked their relationship since the unfortunate incident in 1614 of the expensive prostitute in Leiden when both were on their grand tour."

  She let the letter slide from her fingers. "In the end, the only decision of the self-proclaimed 'Herzfeld Conference' was to have another meeting the next year."

  Again, she took several deep breaths. "I have read, myself, several of the pamphlets written by that Spartacus fellow. Even—God save my soul—a pamphlet written by Gretchen Richter. I would be lying to both of you if I did not confess that I agree with half of what they say." A bit hastily: "If not, certainly, the other half."

  She drew out the chair from the desk and sat in it. Then, folding her hands atop the stack of letters, gave the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel and the former duke of Saxe-Weimar a level stare.

  "But this much is true, O ye noblemen. With, of course, some exceptions, the aristocracy of Germany has become a plague upon the land. Parasites, nothing else. And while I do not include our own family in this—nor yours, Wilhelm, save that swine Bernhard—nor a number of others—if we insist on sticking together we will all go down together. Do not doubt it for an instant."