by Eric Flint
Sharon sounded amused. “Oh? And how do you manage that? I can barely see you.”
“It is the light around you, the glow given off by your halo.”
Sharon was close enough now that he could make out her face; he saw her slanted smile as she emitted a single burble of laughter. “My halo? Yeah, sure: I’ll bet.”
As they approached each other, he returned her smile. “I suppose other features are also visible at a distance.”
She stopped a yard away from him. “Yeah?” Her voice was playful. “Like what?”
Ruy sadly eyed the distance between them. It was what they had agreed to because it was deemed the minimal acceptable restraint while they were within the walls of the monastery. “The magnitude of your many virtues and charms.”
She resumed walking, but moved to his side. “Let’s walk,” she suggested. “And keep your hands off my ‘charms.’”
Ruy smiled as he fell in beside her. “It is not in keeping with either Christian charity or compassion to torture a man so.”
“Well, that is a shame.” Her smile said that she didn’t really think it was. At all.
His steps veered slightly closer to her.
“Hey! Watch it, Ruy! You heard what I said.”
“Yes. Your charms are forbidden fruit. But I am also most worshipful of your virtue—”
“Ruy! You’re supposed to be an officer. And a gentleman.”
“I am both. I am a very tired officer. And a very desperate gentleman.”
“Well, I’d think that being tired would make you feel a little less desperate.”
“Alas, my beauteous wife, you perceive in reverse; it is enduring my desperation that makes me so tired.”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “You are impossible.”
“Yes. But you love me. Which is why you possess that halo.”
She seemed to forget herself, started to reach out to touch him, then snatched her hand back. “You sly, silver-tongued fox.”
“I am guilty of all your worst accusations, my heart. But in my defense, I must assert that it is your beauty that has driven me to these many sins. If only you could absolve them with a kiss—”
She stepped a little farther away…but not very much farther. “Ruy. Seriously.” Her voice became genuinely regretful. “If we keep this up—look; why don’t we switch topics?”
“I am yours to command,” he said morosely. And he didn’t have to act much to produce that tone. Which was the key to his next gambit: to play upon her sympathy.
She didn’t take the bait. “You’re mine to command? Well, that’s a nice change. So, I command you to tell me if you’ve managed to convince Urban not to celebrate Pentecost in St. John’s.”
Ruy did not like reexperiencing, or reporting, failure, but now he was compelled to do both. “Alas, I have not changed His Holiness’ mind. His new demeanor may be more mild, but his will remains a thing of steel.”
“Yeah, well, if his body were made of it, I’d be a lot less worried.”
“You and me both, my heart. But he is adamant. Instead of being more cautious, he seems to be emboldened by the increasing number of physicians eager to flutter around him. As if you and Dr. Connal were not enough.”
“Who now?”
“Father Leo Allatius. A Greek, born on Chios, I believe. A physician and translator, it seems.”
“Translator?”
“Yes. Naturally, his Greek is excellent and his Russian and Turkish quite good. And he seems quite familiar with the Eastern rite. He’s become something of a liaison to that contingent, unless I am much mistaken.”
Sharon seemed lost in thought for a moment. “You know, I think I know a way to get him off your back. Although I’m the primary physician for Urban, and Sean Connal is my assistant and first physician for the Council of Cardinals, we should have a Physician in Residence for the other guests of the colloquium. And being a translator, Allatius is an excellent choice: he will understand their complaints directly.”
“Shall I ask Father von Spee’s permission to so task him?” Von Spee had also become something like a chief of staff for Urban.
“Yes, do, with my strong recommendation.” She stopped. They had reached the corner of the cloister. The door in front of them would lead Ruy to the tunnel complex that Bernhard had expanded. The walkway that bent to the left would ultimately bring Sharon to her room at the far end of the monastery. “Time to say good night.”
Ruy sighed. He raised a hand. “I am your obedient servant. I am bound for the cell next to what His Holiness calls his Hermit’s Cave.” Which was quite a misnomer: it was a large, comfortable room that the pope shared with two dedicated guards from the Wild Geese, much to Urban’s annoyance. “I shall see you tomorrow, as desperate and fatigued as ever, I fear.”
“Well,” Sharon said, “we can’t have that.” Before Ruy could react—which was saying quite a lot—Sharon leaned in, gave him a quick, light kiss on the lips, and then turned and walked briskly away, her figure silhouetted against the dim, early moonlight.
Ruy watched her go, smiled, put his index finger to his lips, sighed, and reflected that now the cell next to the Hermit’s Cave wouldn’t seem quite so cold or lonely. The long walk there would be more tolerable.
Nevertheless, he watched her distinctive silhouette until she disappeared into the darkened archway that fronted the monastery.
Part Three
Wednesday
May 7, 1636
Of what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground
Chapter 16
Sharon Nichols stifled a yawn that brought tears to her eyes, through which she squinted ahead into the darkness of the Besançon’s back streets.
“I’m sorry to have awakened you, Ambassador, but we really must hurry.” Finan, her assistant and mobile radioman, sounded both genuinely sorry and genuinely agitated. That was unusual in itself; diminutive Finan was usually as imperturbably good-natured as he was efficient. Taken together, those traits were probably why he’d been chosen for his third, unofficial job: Sharon’s bodyguard. Because like Mary’s little lamb, everywhere that she went, he was sure to follow. Indeed, Finan had never done anything but simply trail after her until this morning. He had come banging on her door, softly at first, but finally so loudly that even Sharon Nichols, who took a perverse pride in how deeply she slept, could no longer ignore it.
She glanced up at the roofs that constituted the Palais Grenville’s rear compound; there might be a faint lightening of the sky, of false dawn, there, but she could not be sure. “Why are we staying off the high street?” she asked.
Finan raised his left index finger so that it lay across his lips. “Quiet, please, Ambassador. We’re stayin’ off the high street for the same reason we must remain silent: so that no one will see us.”
They drew abreast of the palace to their right, and the Carmelite monastery to their left. “Won’t you at least explain why Ruy needs me?” When Sharon had first stumbled out of bed, she had been half convinced that Ruy had coerced Finan into playing the part of Cupid, to escort her along to some surreal tryst with her husband. She became fully convinced when, predictably, Finan had woven his apologies into his explanation that she must get dressed and join Ruy. His insistence that she bring her medical kit had been a clever touch: made it sound like a genuine emergency. She had resolved to conk her sex-obsessed husband with her physician’s bag the moment she saw him. If she didn’t, she admitted it was all too likely that she would succumb to his wildly inappropriate and yet wildly flattering wooing.
But now, as Finan slowed, checking left and right before they emerged into the far more open high street, she became increasingly tense. She had initially expected to be led into some forgotten corner of the cloister. Then, after they exited the monastery’s gate, she suspected that they would turn into some small house, where Ruy would be waiting for her. But as they had continued courting the shadows of the smaller street that paralleled the main road, she began to have
her doubts that this was, in fact, all part of some libidinous scheme. They were going too far, too stealthily, and Finan’s rifle—a Soviet SKS that was special issue among the Hibernians—remained in his hands the whole time.
Instead of answering her question about the cause of Ruy’s summons—had he even heard it?—he gestured for her to follow him closely. Slightly bent at the waist, he trotted across the high street, making for the slightly darker shadows cast by and hiding the facades of the buildings on the opposite side. Those shadows told Sharon that false dawn was edging over the eastern horizon, but just barely. Which made it just a little after four AM.
As they hastened on within the margin of those shadows, Sharon felt a slight sweat moistening her back, but not from exertion: it was from a sudden pulse of fear that ran up her spine. Clearly, Ruy’s summons was not salacious but deadly serious—so serious that he was willing to wake her before four AM to travel in the company of her suddenly grave, almost grim, assistant, whose presence belied the notion that he was anything other than her bodyguard.
Somewhere far to the north, probably in one of the small greens that ran up to the walls just north of St. Paul’s, an overzealous cock crowed his impatience at the laggard sun. Behind them, from the cluster of small houses gathered skirtlike about St. Maurice’s, was a distant, sharp splash: probably a chamberpot being emptied into the dark streets in violation of the ill-enforced municipal order against doing so.
Finan led them west along the northern side of the high street, straightening only when they could clearly make out the facade of St. Peter’s. A single dark figure loitered there, affecting a casual stance. Very poorly. With a sharp gesture, Finan indicated that Sharon should stay right at his heels as, once again, he broke into a trot. Slightly faster this time, and without hunching.
Finan exchanged a wave with the figure, which soon resolved into the form of one of the younger Wild Geese, Danny O’Dee, who waved them farther west, toward a cluster of ruder, more tightly packed one- and two-story houses and shops. Finan plunged into one of the narrow streets leading into darker shadows. Sharon, simultaneously fearful and curious, followed.
Finan slowed to a quick walk, looking back at her when, after about one hundred feet into the tangle of tilting, aged buildings, he turned sharply into an alley, just beyond a public house with a high foundation. Its short flight of steps was almost hidden by a mass of mangy cats that eyed her indifferently as she passed. Sharon slipped into the alley mouth that had swallowed Finan—and came to a sudden, involuntary stop.
Ruy was there, as was Owen Roe O’Neill and one of the older Wild Geese—“Tone” Grogan, she thought his name was. They were gathered around a man—no, a corpse—sitting with its back up against the wall of the tavern. Even at this range, she could see that the front of his tunic was rent by a huge, lopsided “X.”
“Ambassador,” Finan’s voice said a few inches from her ear. Startled, she flinched a step in the other direction and discovered where the young Hibernian had almost disappeared into the shadows at the mouth of the alley. “It’s safer if you join the others.”
Sharon nodded and walked quickly over to Ruy, even as her eyes went back to the body—
Male. Middle-aged. Overweight but not obese. A primarily sedentary occupation, she projected: even in the almost nonexistent light, she could see that his hands were not calloused or dirty. His clothes were not suited for heavy work, either, and while they were worn, they were not of particularly cheap manufacture. Her mind spun through images, looking for an up-time parallel: they reminded Sharon of her old sweatshirts. Clothing past its prime, but still useful to run around in, particularly if you were about to do something that could make you a little dirty or sweaty.
“Sharon?” It was Ruy’s voice.
She looked up. “Yes?” His eyes were sad, his expression almost—what? Sheepish? Who, Ruy!?
“My love, I am sorry for having disturbed your sleep, but—”
She shook her head. “No, I understand.” She allowed herself a small smile. “I thought you were just trying to”—she suddenly remembered the other men standing close by—“were up to your usual tricks.”
Ruy stepped closer, kept his voice very low. “As you can see, my summons was a matter of seriousness, not satyriasis.” When she smiled at that, he frowned. “My wife, are you quite well?”
Sharon blinked. “Huh? Yeah. Why?”
Ruy glanced at the body. “Does this not—upset you?”
“A corpse? Why? Should it? I saw enough at Molino, didn’t I?”
Ruy’s eyes widened slightly. “My peerless love, I—well, I allow I did not expect you to stiffen with fear. You are a doctor—a surgeon—after all. But to smile while within mere feet of—”
“—of an inanimate object, Ruy. Don’t mistake me: I wish I could undo what was done to this man. But I know why you brought me here: you want me to examine the body. Professionally.”
“Well, yes. But—”
She put a hand on his cheek. “Ruy, part of being a physician, man or woman, is the ability to put your emotions and your reflexes aside so you can do your job. If I hadn’t been able to do that, I wouldn’t have been able to operate on you in Rome. And I assure you, I am not indifferent to this person’s fate. It’s just that I can’t do anything to help him anymore.” She frowned, glancing back at the crisscross lacerations that marked the front of the corpse’s torso. “Although I’ve got to be honest: I’m not sure I would have been able to do anything to help him even if I’d been there with a surgical team right after he was attacked.”
Ruy nodded, stepped aside and glanced at the body, inviting her to look closer, almost.
Sharon did so. “Knife, I’d say.”
Owen Roe’s voice was low. “Our thought, too, Ambassador.”
She looked up at him; his face was a dark smudge against the shadows. “Just when are you going to call me ‘Sharon,’ Owen?”
Owen glanced quickly at Ruy, who smiled, shrugged, looked away. “Well, ma’am, er, Doctor…er. Well, Judas be choked, I’m not accustomed to calling ladies of such accomplishments by their first names, like they were my sister.”
“Owen Roe O’Neill, I assure you, beyond the slightest shred of doubt, that no one is going to take us for siblings.”
Although she couldn’t see his pale skin, blue eyes, or red beard, his teeth flashed in a fast smile. “True enough…Sharon. Although I hardly deserve the privilege of such familiarity: I’m the one who disturbed your sleep, brought you out here.”
“You?”
Before Owen could answer, Ruy cut in. “The colonel is being more gallant than accurate, my heart. He had me summoned; I summoned you.”
“That’s as may be,” Owen emended doggedly, “but you know damned well, Ruy Sanchez, that the better part of my reason of calling for you was because of your wife. She is, after all, your better half.” A brief pause. “Well, the better three-quarters. As you’ve told us. Over and over again.”
Sharon frowned, baffled. “Ruy, just what are you telling other people about me?”
Ruy’s answering grin was lopsided. “Dearest, I must confess that I have a terrible habit.”
“Just one?” Sharon asked mildly.
The Irish guard behind Owen stifled a guffaw; Finan may have snickered.
Ruy’s smile widened. “Allow me to rephrase: among my many bad habits, one in particular led to your summons. You see, I brag. Uncontrollably. About you.”
Well, as flaws went, Sharon allowed, that wasn’t a particularly bad one. Unless…“Wait a minute: brag how?”
“My love, I am the most ardent and vocal admirer of your many skills and uncommon interests. Including your enormous appetite for books, and vast library. Particularly those novels that are called…eh…”
She smiled. “Police procedurals,” she finished for him.
“Yes. Exactly. Those. So between that interest and your peerless skills as a physician…”
She smiled. “Yeah, yeah.
So now I’m the M.E., huh?”
“Emm Eee?” Ruy repeated uncertainly.
Owen sounded even more flummoxed. “Er, well…of course, you’re you. Who else would you be, then?”
Sharon hoped that her giggle wouldn’t be seen as further evidence that she was in fact ghoulishly dispassionate, given that they were all standing three feet away from a recently murdered man. “I’m not spelling out ‘me,’ Owen. M.E. is a title.” He, like most other down-timers, did not readily “hear” acronyms as such, largely because they were not a part of down-time speech. They reflexively heard them as words, being spelled out. “It’s an abbreviation for ‘Medical Examiner.’ A doctor who, among other things, analyzes bodies to determine the cause and time of death.”
“Oh, that,” Owen nodded. “Aye. As your braggart husband is fond of explaining.”
Sharon made sure her face was composed as she turned back to the body. “Why did you want me to inspect this corpse, Owen?”
“Well, Ambass—er, Sharon—I’ve seen my fair share of dead bodies, and this one was odd.”
She moved her head closer, tried to get a better look at the cuts, the corpse’s staring eyes and clothes. “Odd in what way?”
“You’ll forgive the blunt speech to a lady—”
“I won’t forgive your speech if it isn’t blunt, Colonel. Anything that keeps the facts vague or imprecise is likely to help the murderer. And we don’t want that, do we?”
“No, ma’a—um, Sharon. Well, there’s not as much blood as there should be, and what there is doesn’t look right at all.”
She scanned the corpse. “You had a light when you discovered him?”
Ruy nodded. “Still do. We hooded the lantern. Best not to draw any attention.”
“Well, raise a few cloaks to shield it and uncover the light. I need to see better.”
When the three men other than watchful Finan had gathered around to shield the lantern, Grogan unhooded it. Sharon did not merely see more clearly; it felt as if her entire field of vision was expanding, a sensation that she experienced when she went into what she internally labeled as “rapid intake mode.”
