1636_The Vatican Sanction

by Eric Flint

  Which is all total bullshit, of course. Sharon took a deep breath.

  “I am sorry if I have distressed you, my lovely wife,” Ruy murmured.

  Sharon smiled, put a hand on Ruy’s, which had never left her arm. “I overreacted. Like a dope. But I also needed that reminder of the danger that may lurk around us. You’ve been screening visitors for so many weeks now, and with so little cause for alarm, that I guess I just got used to it.”

  In point of fact, she realized with a second look and a start, Ruy’s security precautions actually had changed from what she had first seen five weeks ago, when the first of the representatives to Urban’s colloquy had begun to arrive. The primary screening was still being conducted by the local militia. They spoke the local patois, often knew the families of vendors and tradesmen, and were able to joke about recent events. It was both a casual and efficient means of sorting out the known persons from the unknown.

  Never far off from the militia, but always standing two or three paces away from the line itself, were Burgundian regulars. Or so they called themselves: to Sharon, the lack of national uniforms among the armies of Europe made it impossible to keep them apart or to really think of them as true soldiers at all. They almost all had off-white (or maybe just dingy) shirts and dark trousers. Their only definitive identifiers were their arm bands or tassels of orange and dark teal: the colors of their ruler, Grand Duke Bernhard. Originally a German noble of the powerful Wettin family, he had essentially stolen a number of provinces at the end of the abbreviated Thirty Years’ War, collectively labeled them Burgundy, and ruled there only because, as the old axiom had it, might makes right. And he still possessed the greatest might in the region.

  The Burgundians’ equipment was dated: brigandines that had seen better days and shabby old swords. But soon Sharon overcame the initial impression of anachronisms on parade and perceived the methods in the madness that had inspired Ruy to assign the regulars to this duty. Although few were besontsins, they still knew the local patois and could easily follow what was transpiring between the militia and the throngs attempting to enter the city. On the other hand, few had relatives here and so were not merely at a physical remove, but a socially impartial distance, from the often impatient crowd. Lastly, since any problems were likely to start with a physical altercation of some kind, their armor and swords were significant disincentives but divorced from any possible escalation to firearms. On the other hand, if a troublemaker in the line did produce a hidden gun…well, there were other forces to deal with that.

  Lurking less obviously near street corners, the walkways down to the quay, and around the gate itself was a far more professional and uniform set of soldiers: the Irish Wild Geese. Commanded by Owen Roe O’Neill himself, several had been on hand to fight off Urban’s would-be assassins last year. Well trained with both swords and pistols, their heavy, custom-built pepperbox revolvers rode at their hips, occasionally clacking against their cuirasses. The almost uniform light eyes and fair hair that peeked out from beneath the brim shadows of their capeline helmets marked them as strangers to the region, as did their language: a mix of English and Amideutsch that labored up through heavy brogues. They were watchful and serious, befitting their new status as the Pope’s Own: the Holy City’s Swiss Guard had almost all been slain during the siege of the Castel St. Angelo.

  Last and least obvious of all were the figures only visible as half seen shadows in a few ground-floor doorways, on a few balconies, and a single silhouette holding a long, thin-barreled rifle up in the bell-tower of St. Madeleine: two squads of the crack Hibernian Mercenary Battalion. Officially soldiers of fortune, they were under exclusive contract to the up-timer-dominated government of the State of Thuringia-Franconia and had proven their worth several times in Italy and Mallorca during the previous year. Wearing buff coats tailored after up-time military style, they remained all but hidden, their individually-crafted Winchester .40-72 lever action rifles and percussion cap revolvers usually well out of sight, both to retain surprise and avoid attracting undue notice. Two on the closest balcony were hunched intently over a small box: a primitive portable radio, several of which were being used by Ruy’s security assets to keep each other apprised on traffic and individuals of interest throughout Besançon. And almost invisible at this distance, the silhouette in the bell-tower continued to turn slowly, one hand holding unseen binoculars to his eyes while the other cradled the rifle with a long tube atop it: a scope.

  Ruy had been quick to see the advantages of the Hibernians’ up-time methods, particularly those made possible by multiple portable radios. But this layered security approach also brought a problem that was equally anachronistic, but quite familiar to Sharon: turf wars.

  The local cops—the militia—were ticked off that the State Troopers—the Burgundians—were really calling the shots. They were annoyed, in turn, by the President’s Secret Service—here, the pope’s Wild Geese—who could interfere whenever they wanted to. But even those professional bodyguards had to coordinate with the Hibernians, who were the equivalent of a SOCOM unit possessing the demeanor of the SAS. Who all ultimately answered to the national intelligence apparatus: Ruy and his immediate lieutenants. Just like home.

  Or maybe not. Sharon could feel her smile droop as she noticed anew the shabby pomp of the sun-bleached national and city pennants that fluttered all around them, the omnipresent stink of both equine and human wastes, the borderline malnutrition in many of the less-well-attired persons in the crowd, their yellowed and crooked teeth, and the paucity of signage that sported words in addition to simple icons.

  No, Sharon reflected, suppressing a shake of her head, this isn’t home. And not because the conditions here are worse. In a lot of ways, it’s better. Hell, I’d rather be burned for being a witch than for being black. But this will never look normal to me, to eyes that grew up filled with images of a world almost four hundred years further along than this one, no matter its own ugliness and horrors.

  She turned, back toward Ruy, watching him receiving reports, giving orders, shuffling his men around with the surety of a master chess-player navigating a practice match. To him, this was all a brave new world of wonders: he marshaled forces by radio, had a .357 magnum in a shoulder holster, had seen the surface of a moon through a telescope, had watched a video of El Cid, and had dipped into dozens of up-time books with the same luxuriant delight evinced by a man of humble means who suddenly finds himself furnished with unlimited aristocratic delights and diversions. And yet, as he often and emphatically pointed out, the greatest gift that the future had conferred upon him was his beloved wife.

  Who, for one small moment, envied that her husband was enchanted and excited by changes that seemed only wondrous and future-looking. Because for a foresightful up-timer, not only was this world a vast slip backward in health, in justice, in safety: it was also ingenuously caught up in the first, misleading blush of enthusiasm for all the improvements that had come from the future. Soon enough, Sharon feared, the long-term consequences of those changes would be felt, and a backlash against the new would arise. As it always did.

  A door, groaning heavily on its hinges, opened slowly behind her. She glanced back, wearing a small, reassuring smile by the time she turned to face—

  Larry Mazzare, Cardinal-Protector of the United States of Europe, emerged from the combination toll- and customs-house that extended away from the southwest side of the gate. Two Wild Geese flanked him as he squinted into a beam of sudden sunlight; the clouds were finally parting.

  Larry had aged since they had arrived down-time, five and a half years ago. There was more gray in his hair, more lines on his face, and his simple Sunday-black had been traded for the heavy and many layered raiment of a post-Renaissance cardinal. A trade he had not welcomed, and which he did not maintain at home, but here, in Besançon and on the pope’s business, he had little choice. He noticed Sharon, nodded at her, at Ruy, and asked, “So…he’s here?”

  Ruy nodded. “Yes
. Bedmar has landed. He is on his way.”

  Chapter 2

  Larry Mazzare moved to stand beside Sharon and Ruy, but the Wild Geese with him—Cormack McCarew and Daniel O’Dempsey—crowded protectively in front of him. Larry sighed: leave it to young Irishmen to be not only ready, but eager, to take a bullet for a trusted counselor of the pope.

  Daniel—who everyone wound up calling “Danny-o-Dee”—raised an eyebrow in mock recrimination as Larry tried to press forward. “Yer makin’ our job a trial, y’ar, Your Eminence.”

  Mazzare frowned back, not entirely joking. “You call me ‘your eminence’ one more time, Danny, and I’ll have your hide.”

  “Yer welcome to it—Your Eminence.”

  “Danny—”

  “All right, then Fahther, but it will be my hide f’sure if anyone hears me bein’ so familiar with yeh.”

  Cormack McCarew nodded. “He’s right, Your Eminence. And don’t waste your evil eye on me: I’ve sworn me duty t’ God, and if’t please you, I’m more feared of His wrath than yours.”

  Larry didn’t find it too hard to suppress a smile. McCarew and Danny-o-Dee were among the youngest of the Wild Geese, as cute as a pair of spring-born pups, and so utterly earnest that it was impossible not to be charmed by them. But for all of that, they were also tiresome sticklers for the details of their duty: to stick with Mazzare no matter where he went, no matter what he was doing. No exceptions. Which led to some truly frustrating moments at the privy and in the bath. Urban had a similar security detail and similar exasperations.

  Larry eventually came to stand by Sharon, with Ruy to her left. “The radio report has Bedmar passing the waypoint at St. Madeleine now. The entourage is moving quickly.”

  Ruy nodded. “Was there any indication that his arrival attracted any special attention?”

  “No. Your decision to use sedan chairs instead of carriages seems to be working. The locals have now seen so many people carried that way from the aerodrome that they don’t take any special note.”

  Sharon leaned toward Larry. “You must be relieved.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Bedmar is the last cardinal you have to wrangle. To say nothing of the Protestants and the rest.”

  Larry shrugged. “Heck, Sharon, I guess you could say I brought it on myself. I could have kept my big yap shut about the up-time documents of the papacy, the Church, and especially Vatican Two…but I didn’t.”

  Sharon looked at him. “I don’t claim to understand much about the chats a priest must have with God, but you’ve made it pretty clear you felt you had to.” She smiled. “To quote a movie that’s set in my old home town, ‘You’re on a mission from God.’”

  Larry stared at her. “I may wear white shirts and black suits, but I do not wear black horn-rim sunglasses or claim to be a Blues Brother.”

  Sharon laughed, her chin lifting into the sound. Her face was not quite as full as it had been when they had arrived in 1631, and although she was still a heavily built woman, she was more athletic and toned, now. The last two years had involved a lot of rigorous travel, often under the threat of pursuing assassins, all on a diet in which refined starches were sparse and refined sugar downright rare.

  “Frankly, Sharon, I should be thanking you.”

  “For what?”

  Larry waved a hand at the long line that snaked away from the gate, the soldiers, the busy bridge. “For arranging to reserve lodging for over a hundred dignitaries, and then three hundred more scribes, guards, clerks, personal assistants, and other members of various entourages. Convincing Bernhard to go along with it, and to conveniently be out of town. And above all, getting Gustav Adolf to pay for the majority of it. I suspect that was the hardest trick of all.”

  Sharon’s smile became sly. “Yeah, well, I had a secret weapon.”

  Larry smiled back. “You mean Mike Stearns?”

  “The one and only.”

  Larry nodded. The de facto leader of the displaced American up-timers, former union official Mike Stearns, was notorious for combining forces with Ed Piazza, the former high school principal who was now the president of the State of Thuringia-Franconia and expected by most people to become the next prime minister of the United States of Europe in the coming elections. Stearns and Piazza employed a kind of tag-team advocacy to wrestle Gustav—or more properly, Gustav II Adolph, King of Sweden, High King of the Union of Kalmar, and Emperor of the United States of Europe—into supporting the projects they really wanted. Gustav, a staunch Lutheran, would have pushed back hard on funding a papal colloquium, ecumenical or not. Clearly, Mike and Ed had successfully justified it as being essential to the future health of the USE.

  “Besides,” Sharon continued after a moment, nodding toward Burgundian regulars, “Bernhard was going to be out of town anyhow. It’s the start of campaign season.”

  Which was true enough: Bernhard’s version of Burgundy was not a pleasing geopolitical construct to most of the region’s powers. It ran roughshod over the historical claims of France’s Capetian dynasty, made a mockery of Madrid’s Hapsburg-legitimated dominion of the region since 1519, violated Besançon’s own status as a semi-independent city of the now defunct Holy Roman Empire, and had quickened a surge of preemptive defensiveness along the south-flanking border with the Duchy of Savoy. To put it lightly, Bernhard’s arrival had earned him more than a few restive neighbors.

  Bernhard’s response to these pressures was exactly what Larry had come to expect from the monarchs of the seventeenth century: he went to war. In Bernhard’s defense, his campaign was neither impetuous nor ill-considered. His relatively recent marriage to Claudia de Medici, the regent and current ruler of Tyrol, had enabled him to transform his two-year standoff with the Swabian-based Swedish forces into an undeclared armistice. Tyrol was the newest state in the constellation of the USE, and so Gustav’s troops could hardly launch attacks against Bernhard without causing both a multifaceted intranational and international incident with his wife’s polity.

  Having thus wrought a political solution to the very real danger beyond the Rhine on his eastern flank, Bernhard immediately reinforced his western border, and was now busily snapping up some undefended autonomous real estate to his north. Out of the goodness of his autocratic and acquisitive heart, he was determined to offer those lands the security of sheltering beneath the new Burgundian—which was to say, Bernhardian—flag. It was, so to speak, an offer they could not refuse. Consequently, with his visiting wife and newborn son safely ensconced closer to his intended area of operations, devoutly Lutheran Bernhard had also managed to be out of town at exactly the moment when it would have been most awkward to be present: the commencement of a colloquium during which his rising star would have been outshone by sharing the local political stage with no less a luminary than the pope.

  Larry’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a breathless runner, who leaned quickly toward Ruy. The hidalgo acknowledged the message with a quick nod, then turned to Sharon and Larry. “Bedmar’s entourage is starting across the bridge. We will be at pains to greet him in such a way as to avoid rousing suspicions as to his importance, so we must not appear too protective or hasty. But nor may we indulge in lengthy greetings and conversations.”

  Sharon nodded. Larry merely folded his hands. His part in the scripted reception—peeling off with a picked and hidden formation of Owen Roe O’Neill’s Wild Geese and escorting Bedmar to his protected lodgings—would commence soon enough. Until then, he was merely a spectator. And maybe, a calming distraction for Sharon, who was starting to appear a little anxious. “I imagine you’re looking forward to seeing the back of Bedmar’s arrival, too.”

  Sharon replied with a sound that was part sigh and part grunt. “We’re still waiting for the Russian orthodox contingent, who should have come in on yesterday’s dirigible. And two of the Lutheran theologians haven’t shown, yet—even though, by all rights, they should have been the first to arrive.” She sighed. “At least I didn’t ha
ve to juggle all the balls myself at the outset.”

  Larry nodded his understanding. In the earliest phases of organizing the colloquium, Sharon had delegated various organizational tasks to up-timers who were already located in Besançon and whose skills were suited to her needs. Unfortunately, that came to a grand total of three persons—well, more like two and a half: Lisa Lund, who had formerly been an interpreter and clerk; the similarly skilled Carey Calagna; and her fifteen-year-old daughter Dominique Bell, who was a pretty sharp cookie and was a match for most down-time scribes when it came to reading and writing.

  The rest of the displaced Americans in the region were located across the north loop of the Doub in the small hamlet of Bregille, where, future maps indicated, two smaller bridges would be built over the shallows that were currently used as occasional livestock fords and for the setting of weirs. Hired by Bernhard to oversee the creation of a variety of (comparatively) modern construction and fabrication shops, the Americans had chosen Bregille for its direct and largely untrafficked river access: a major advantage for reducing the expense of receiving raw materials and, eventually, shipment of finished goods. Located well beyond the roadway bottlenecks of both the Battant and the Buckle, land was cheap there and unburdened by special tolls and tariffs.

  However, as Sharon had emphasized when discussing security provisions with Ruy and Larry half a year ago, she would still have been happier if the up-timers in Bregille had been a hundred miles away. A ruthless and well-informed adversary—such as the one they’d faced in Italy—could use them as hostages, since it was known that most of the time-marooned Americans tended to watch out for each other to a certain degree, enough for that instinct to provide leverage over them. And any well-informed adversary would know that Sharon Nichols remained the USE’s representative to Urban, and so, knew that to be an emotional screw they might hope to turn.

  Consequently, Sharon had cut what little contact she had with the small up-time enclave in Bregille and had dismissed Lisa, Carey, and Dominique by late March, pressing bonuses upon them along with entreaties to continue with their daily lives as unobtrusively as possible, and to use their up-time skills—and modest celebrity—as sparsely as they might.