by Eric Flint
Sharon stared at him. “Larry. You know what I’m asking about: the colloquium itself, not the sideshows.”
Larry kicked peevishly at a small bit of mortar that had come loose from the rough bricks beneath their feet. “I just wish the colloquium was focused on its supposed purpose—but it’s not.”
“Now what does that mean?”
“It means that everyone is supposed to be here talking about starting an official ecumenical dialog.”
“And they’re not?”
“Well, yeah, to a point. And yes, they’re making reasonable progress on it. But what really has their attention—what they can’t wait to debate in the time between the sessions, in the corridors and in the corners—is the fate of the Catholic Church.”
“You mean, whether it should be in Urban’s hands or Borja’s?”
Larry shook his head. “No. There’s no difference of opinion on that point. But for most of the non-Catholics, that matter also doesn’t have the most powerful political implications. What they’re usually talking about—before I approach and they clam up—is what would happen if the endgame of the split Church played out as the second fall of a Roman Empire.”
Sharon’s eyebrows raised. “I could see the cardinals thinking the Church had that kind of power, but not the others.”
Larry shook his head again. “That’s not what I mean. What the more enlightened Protestants have realized is that, as did the fall of Imperial Rome, a fall of Catholic Rome would create much the same kind of power vacuum, albeit a much smaller one. But it could become the catalyst for a new round of wars all across the map of Europe.”
Ruy frowned. “Religious wars?”
“No, plain old secular ones. Here’s the short version: the more shortsighted Protestants and the secularists came here eager to see The Holy See implode and fragment. If that happened, then the Roman Catholic Church, bereft of her property and power, would be a religion like any other, no longer able to directly field her own armies and fund her own political initiatives. And no small number of Protestant rulers seemed to be dreaming of some kind of tidy aftermath in which they would watch that fall take place, and then calmly and benevolently apportion those many valuable fragments among themselves.
“However, the shrewder minds here saw that human nature predicted a different outcome. There would be no patient division of papal lands and cities, just a pack of royal wolves tussling over a continent-spanning carcass. And you can guess how that would wind up.”
Ruy nodded. “Each state would fear to accept a smaller share of the scraps than the others, lest that smaller share should translate into a smaller share of dominance. They would ultimately turn on each other.”
Larry nodded. “A lot of the folks sent here by secular authorities couldn’t initially see beyond the fact that the annual flow of silver to Rome would now remain in their own lands. So the more narrow-minded ecclesiastics wept no small number of crocodile tears while counting the coin they and their rulers expected to realize from what is effectively a sustained papal interregnum.
“But the more farsighted folks realized that the short term gains of the Church’s dissolution would have far greater long-term costs. Papal possessions and cities were actually more threatened by the Church’s division than they ever had been by the Thirty Years’ War. And now, with that conflict largely over, they could ultimately be absorbed into the most proximal and powerful secular states, since they no longer had any way to resist the forces of their much larger neighbors. As long as the power of the Church is effectively split between Borja and Urban, the Holy See is unable to provide military, financial, and diplomatic aid, because it’s no longer collecting and distributing those assets to its far-flung conglomeration of possessions, client states, and free cities.
“So the trend in the discussions now is that an intact Roman Catholic Church is in the interests of all concerned, because without it, there would be an interval of dangerous instability and intrafaith strife—even as the specter of an Ottoman attack is looming in the Balkans. And ultimately, they all recognize that an intact Roman Church requires having Urban back on the cathedra.”
Ruy sent a long sideways glance at Mazzare. “Your Eminence, I have heard you speak much on the differences between the Church in this world, and the one in yours. I am surprised to hear you supporting a future in which the Church retains its immense secular holdings and influence. I intend no impertinence, but have you not, on many occasions, cited the parable of the rich man and the camel’s odds of passing through the eye of a needle when explaining why the papacy should be allowed, even encouraged, to return its attention to divine matters, rather than mundane possessions?”
Larry nodded. “And I still feel that way, Ruy, now more than ever. However, I also accept that, in these circumstances, the transition has to be gradual rather than abrupt. A sudden power vacuum in Europe would invite a rekindling of wars and atrocities as nations scrambled to gobble up the vulnerable papal possessions. And in that process, those warlike flames would almost certainly be fanned so hot and so high that they would reignite the hatreds that still exist between too many Protestants and Catholics.”
Sharon sighed. “It’s been five years since we got here, and I’m still waiting to see any easy answer for any of the problems we run into.”
Ruy fell back a step, then paced forward to draw even with his wife’s other side; now she was in the middle. “So,” he asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “there were many simply-answered problems in your wondrous up-time world?”
Sharon opened her mouth but nothing came out, as she evidently cast about for an effective reply.
“Sharon,” murmured Larry, “don’t lie.”
Sharon closed her mouth and leaned against Ruy’s arm.
All three completed their circuit of the cloister in silence.
Chapter 33
Klaus Müller was where he was supposed to be—right next to the door—when Norwin Eischoll slipped back into the overcrowded and squalid quarters that Ignaz von Meggen had secured for them. Although, in actuality, it had been the Swiss merchant with the squashed nose who had provided the tip that led them to their lodgings; he knew the town, and so knew where there were flophouses so mean and obscure that travelers never became aware of them.
“Well?” asked Müller.
“Hush,” whispered Norwin, who slipped into a corner screened by a partial wall.
Müller followed. “Did you meet him?”
“Be quiet!” Eischoll ordered sharply. Then, in a low tone: “Yes.” He uttered a sudden, incongruous chuckle. “Although, I have to admit: our handler is not the kind of person I was expecting.”
“Who is he?” Müller persisted, but more quietly.
“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that he’s given the word.”
Müller forgot to keep his voice down. “Really? When? Where?”
Eischoll raised his hand, as if to cuff the much larger Müller. “That’s your last warning, Klaus. Soft speech or none at all. We’ll have the details well before dawn.”
“How?”
“Our contact will come here once we’re ready.”
“We’re ready now!”
“No, we’re not. Not until we’ve completed two jobs. Before midnight.”
Klaus had to keep thinking about how loud he might get; he forced himself to whisper. “What are these two jobs?”
Eischoll nodded approvingly. “First, we must contact that arrogant Occitan bastard Gasquet to bring his men here just before dawn.”
“Before dawn?” Müller was already regretting the lost sleep. “Why?”
“Because that is when Gasquet and his men will need to change into their disguises—well, into the uniforms.”
Klaus was now thoroughly confused, a feeling he experienced often enough to have learned a profound dislike for it. “What uniforms?”
Eischoll’s index finger pointed through the wall, toward the back of their lodgings where th
e younger Swiss surrounded Ignaz, as they often did when he recounted one of his family’s Swiss Guard stories. “Those uniforms.”
“You mean, the ones they’re wearing?”
Eischoll nodded.
“But…how do we get them?”
Eischoll smiled faintly. “That’s the second job. Which you and the others will complete while I am off informing Gasquet when he has to be here.” He produced two bottles of armagnac from his rucksack. “This should help you. Most of those farm boys haven’t learned to hold their liquor.” Eischoll rose, retraced his steps to the door, turned as he was about to exit. “And don’t get any blood on the shirts.”
* * *
As the darkness deepened, Pedro Dolor looked down into the walled grounds that ran back from the rear of the Palais Granvelle. It was lit unevenly by torchlight, but that was sufficient to facilitate the work necessitated by the banquet that would conclude tomorrow’s final session of the colloquium. Consequently, the various foodstuffs and wine and other niceties had to be brought in quickly, during the hours when there was no particularly urgent concern with access, since none of the august personages who might also be targets were present.
So for now, the servants and hostlers had the run of those few parts of Palais Granvelle that were open to them. Freed of the endless round of security checks, their work proceeded swiftly. Wagons entered the garden gate to the south, and porters ran to and fro as the victuals and freshly cleaned linen were unloaded. Without any regular residents—a condition caused as much by the dissolution of the Granvelle’s as by Bernhard’s arrival—the palace’s budget allowed only a small staff, and so, many of the services that might normally be expected on the premises had to be sought externally. The alternative, to quickly hire a full complement of additional staff, had not only been fiscally prohibitive, but functionally impossible. There were not so many unemployed persons with the correct skills to be found in all of Besançon, and none of the others could be enticed away from their regular employment by a job that would not continue beyond the colloquium and council.
Which, Dolor reflected, had been precisely the opening he would have exploited, had he been tasked with making the overt attack upon the pope. Apparently whoever had crafted the plan for Borja’s men had also perceived the opportunities inherent in an after-hours surge of servants. One or two might be new staff, hired to help with the increased demands of a banquet, or it might be as simple as a porter who lingered behind and could remain undetected, if aided by someone already on the palace staff.
And getting them inside would be the work of a moment. Surveying the activity down in the courtyard, he watched as the palace’s overseers met each group of porters, gave directions, then moved on to the others. The meeting that would signify a contact between an inside saboteur and outside infiltrators would be slightly different, of course. It would probably resemble the one he watched even now, where a small, bent hostler and his hulking porter were met by one of the senior staff, an exchange like all the rest, except for a brief moment when, left unobserved, they glanced about furtively and stepped closer, their ducked heads moving in time with a conversation that became far more earnest and was quickly concluded. After which the overseer and the provisioners separated, evincing none of the words or gestures of departure that would tell an observer that they had ever been in conversation at all.
Dolor almost smiled. It was amusing to think that he might have just witnessed the fateful exchange that would prime the perfidious mechanism of Urban’s assassination. Wildly unlikely, of course. There was no shortage of roughly similar exchanges that took place as Dolor watched; trading rumors or tall tales or black market information would all have much the same appearance. Even though a handful of Burgundian soldiers were present, so long as nothing appeared out of the ordinary, they took no special note. If the men moving back and forth looked like hostlers and porters, then they were. If the boxes appeared to be full of foodstuffs and linens, then they were. They were probably keeping a rough count of each, but if they were off by one or two over the course of the evening, that would hardly strike them as a cause for alarm; that was just the kind of inaccuracy that they were accustomed to.
Dolor leaned away from the window, sealed the shutters, and began eating a small meal of sausage and cheese. He doubted Sanchez and O’Neill had liked the idea of the banquet, since they would have understood the dangers implicit in it. But clerics at official gatherings had their own expectations, one of which was to be fed at least one sumptuous meal by their host. And if the Wild Geese found nothing out of order when they ran the morning security check in the palace, all trepidation would be put aside. Particularly since two groups of assassins had already been foiled. It would sound alarmist to suggest that, despite all evidence to the contrary, a third attempt might be made.
Dolor idly pulled up one of the floorboards, the one that revealed a crawlspace that led under the rough wooden wall to his right, which did not, in fact, demark the far end of the attic room which he had rented almost three months ago. Beyond that false wall was a safe room: not large, but it would have held his men as they waited out whatever search followed Urban’s assassination. A handy spot for hiding contraband, known only to a few smugglers, no sane person would think that it would be a suitable hiding place for a group of men: too small, too claustrophobic, lightless, and the stink of chamberpots would grow hourly.
But quicklime would eliminate the smell, and both fear and greed would have answered for all the rest: fear of trying to flee and greed for the princely sums that Olivares had provided for payment. Whether his men would have lived long enough to enjoy it was another matter, but Dolor had speculated that Olivares would have been likely to instruct him to retain their services if they had succeeded at killing Urban.
And it really had been such an elegant plan, particularly once Borja expressed his expectation that not just the pope, but cardinals and other clerics would become casualties in the attack. Of Urban’s three possible locations—St. John’s, its cloistered abbey, Palais Granvelle—only the last was a place where he would ever be collocated with those other targets. However, that was not why Dolor had presumed it to be the site the assassins would choose.
Since the security around Urban made a direct attack impossible, any successful plan had to solve the issue of gaining proximity to him without combat. St. John’s and its satellite abbey were essentially hopeless. Urban and his many servitors would immediately detect and suspect any unfamiliar face, since both were served by religious communities that could not be infiltrated by outsiders. That left Palais Granvelle, where, because of the dozens of visitors and their staff, new servants, ostlers, and the like, unfamiliar faces were the rule, rather than an alarming exception.
So, with the Burgundian gear and up-time inspired weapons at the ready in the cellar he had retained, Dolor had hit upon a flexible plan that was largely based upon his opponents’ assumptions, the most important of which was their reliance upon the tunnel connecting the palace to the Carmelite convent. In the event of an attack upon Urban in the palace, it was a surety that they planned to evacuate him there. Their multiple visits to the convent and then their attempts to locate those persons who had been most responsible for handling the subterranean and hidden constructions under it admitted no other explanation.
So, logically, once Borja’s dogs attacked Urban in the palace, that would have the effect of chasing Urban into the convent—where Dolor and his team would never be suspected, at least not in time. Once sneaking inside, they would have enjoyed complete foreknowledge of both the overt and hidden elements of the groundplan. That would have made it relatively simple to both hide within the convent and observe much of the opposition’s movement within it—at least until such time as the pope’s security believed he had been deposited in a safe location.
At that point, it would have been simplicity itself to overpower his immediate guards, kill the pope, and then exit the same way they had entered—and with an
y luck, just as unseen. The up-time pattern shotguns would have given them a modest edge both killing Urban and fighting their way out if that became necessary. Given the close ranges, those weapons would have minimized the differences in training between his men and those of the opposition. And then, after returning to the cellar and shedding all their gear and weapons, they would have made their way separately to the room in which Dolor now sat. Of course, only he had possessed knowledge of its secret connection to a safe-room.
But that plan was ruined. All he could do now was remain where he was, quiet, until the Hibernians, aided by the Burgundian soldiery, finished sweeping the streets of Besançon after Borja’s thugs made their attempt on Urban’s life.
There had been a smaller manhunt earlier this day, no doubt precipitated by the discovery of Rombaldo’s body. But, as predicted, the opposition could hardly spare any of their elite soldiers for such a task. Tensions and fears were high among the gathered clergy, and the collective reflex was to stiffen their defenses immediately. Consequently, the search for Rombaldo’s missing killer was left to the Burgundians and the watch, which was the equivalent of sending a bull to find something in a china shop.
As Dolor finished the cheese, he found himself staring at the knife he was using. So different, and yet not so different, from the one he had used to kill Rombaldo. A knife was a knife, after all. But not all men are the same, nor are all their deaths. He had spent more time with Rombaldo than almost any other person since he had been fourteen. The Bolognese had not just been a relatively effective lieutenant, but loyal at moments when others might have shifted allegiance to a leader with more auspicious prospects.
