by Eric Flint
Except now, none of the Wild Geese were anywhere to be seen, either on guard or at liberty. And the street watchposts of the Hibernians had been withdrawn to the interiors of all the buildings at which they were stationed, beyond where townspeople might reach them.
Dolor leaned back, considered. So perhaps Gasquet’s attack had not been a complete failure, after all. Perhaps Urban had been wounded, evacuated to the priory—that much seemed obvious—and then had taken an unexpected turn for the worse and expired. Or perhaps some remainder of the attack—the notional equivalent of a booby trap—had lingered behind long enough to eliminate the pope.
Dolor paused, putting a check upon the unwarranted optimism of that last conjecture. It was difficult to imagine that any of Borja’s clownish men had shown such inventiveness and presence of mind to leave behind a hidden dagger, as it were. But something unexpected had occurred just after noon, something which necessitated high level radio exchanges with Grantville and compelled all the security forces to be withdrawn from public contact. And the latter meant that this event was also something which his opponents desperately wanted to keep silent.
Perhaps, then, not all was lost. Although it was not logical, a successful assassination attempt always became more of an outrage than a failed one. And if Borja’s henchmen had, somehow, managed to kill Urban, then Olivares would have what he wanted: a pretext whereby he might convince Philip to openly renounce ties with his renegade cardinal and thereby at least preserve the situation in Naples.
And if Olivares got what he wanted, that translated into greater power and access for Dolor to pursue his own objectives. First, the destruction of Marques de Villa Flores et Avila, Don Pedro de Zuñiga. And then, eventually, the stage would be set for Pedro Dolor—or more properly, Wilbur Craigson—to wreak his final vengeance upon the true culprit behind Zuñiga, Borja, and Olivares; upon the beast that had spawned all the well-heeled murderers and pimps who predominated in Philip’s court:
Imperial Spain itself.
Chapter 46
There was a knock on the door of the salon that the last lord of Granvelle had been wont to use for meetings of his privy council.
Larry looked over at Sharon, whose wide eyes met his. “You ready for this?”
“As ready as I’m ever going to be.” Sharon shrugged her considerable shoulders. “Okay, then: here we go.” Raising her surprisingly dainty chin and her surprisingly powerful voice, she called, “Come in!”
The door opened, admitting white-haired Luke Wadding, and then, after dismissing two guards with a wave, Cardinal Alfonso de la Cueva-Benavides y Mendoza-Carrillo Bedmar. They both nodded at the two up-timers and sat.
Larry didn’t waste any time. “Maffeo—Pope Urban asked that I speak to you in the event of his death. The two of you, specifically.”
They nodded again.
“He also asked that Father Vitelleschi be here, but that is not possible.”
Wadding leaned forward anxiously. “Does he continue to improve, or—?”
Sharon smiled, waving a calming hand. “He is already doing much better. Very weak, not awake much. But when he is, he’s as sharp as ever. And even more short-tempered.”
Wadding’s eyes got shiny at the same moment his smile widened. “Thank God on high for that gift!”
Sharon’s smile widened as well. “I don’t mean to sound a heretical note, Your Eminence, but I’m not sure the weapon has been made yet that can kill Father General Vitelleschi. He’s about as tough and stringy as they come.”
That made Bedmar smile. “When a physician can make jokes about his—erm, her—patient, it means they are out of danger. Or the physician is a brute. Which is so very clearly not the case. At least that’s what Achille insists, and he is almost as hardheaded as Vitelleschi.”
Larry nodded. “Well, although you’re not a physician, Your Eminence, I suspect your comment about Achille tells us something similar: that his wound is not too severe.”
“It is not; no major surgery was ultimately required. He insists on calling it a scratch, and is scheduled to depart on the morrow, under the watchful eye of his brother. Who, of course, blames himself for not being at the battle.”
Larry sat up straighter. “Can they delay their departure for a week?”
Bedmar shook his head. “They cannot. There are matters in France, matters pertaining to the crown, which require Achille’s immediate attention. Indeed, they have contracted one of your balloons to take them on the first leg of their journey.” He frowned. “Lawrence, I take it you wish him to remain to maximize the numbers of the consistory—that now you mean to call a Papal Conclave.”
“I do.”
“Well, I doubt any one vote will become too important. And after all, this process could take months—”
“No,” Larry interrupted. “It can’t. It has to take place immediately, and it has to run concurrent with the Council to establish Urban’s ecumenical vision as canon law.”
Bedmar and Wadding exchanged long looks. “Lawrence,” began Wadding, “this is most—irregular.”
Larry nodded. “It is, my friend, but we are living in irregular times. Desperate ones, in some regards.”
Bedmar frowned. “Those are dire words. Please explain them.”
Larry let out a long sigh and clasped his hands before him. He didn’t mean to affect the appearance of praying, but maybe it was appropriate, anyhow. If this scheme didn’t work out—well, he didn’t dare think about that. “So, you’re aware that you two are the only clergy who’ve been informed of Urban’s death?”
They both nodded.
“That’s not just because you were close to him. We’ve sharply limited the news of his demise so that we can manage the fallout—er, the aftermath—and minimize the damage.”
Wadding, whose instinct for politics was often as limited as his talent for theology was vast, screwed up his face. “‘Minimize the damage?’ What does that even mean, Lawrence? The pope has been slain by an assassin. What more damage can there be?”
“Plenty, Your Eminence,” Sharon put in. “This could impact a number of sensitive political and international situations. And not in a good way. Not unless we exert some control over the news of the pope’s death. Immediately.”
Bedmar folded his arms, stared at Larry. “You said that the pope wished you to speak with us in the event of his death. But you have not told us what about.”
Larry drew in a deep breath. No time like the present to drop the bombs. “He left me with two sets of instructions. One regarding the circular he authored that sets out the new canonical laws for ecumenicism—”
“A circular? Not an encyclical?” Wadding swallowed. “But Lawrence, he cannot posthumously impose a complete—!”
“—and the other instruction,” Larry continued, riding over the top of the Franciscan’s stunned outburst, “has to do with the process and outcome of the Conclave.”
Wadding’s eyes widened; Bedmar’s narrowed. “How,” asked the latter, “can the late pope have offered any comments on the outcome of the process whereby his successor will be chosen?”
“By making it clear to me, in no uncertain terms, that, in the event he was killed, that you, Alfonso de la Cueva-Benavides, must be the next pope.” Larry held up a hand. “I know how it sounds. Hell, I know what it means. But Urban was emphatic about this: that only you, Bedmar, could survive being Borja’s opponent. And the next pope we decide upon will be his mortal enemy, no matter what we might wish. You are a Spanish cardinal. Borja will not dare to go after you.”
Bedmar smiled mirthlessly. “Unless I fall from Philip’s favor. Which I suspect is only a matter of time.”
Sharon nodded. “Because eventually you will have to choose between Philip and Fernando.”
Bedmar shrugged. “I was made the cardinal-protector of the Spanish Lowlands: my course is set. And while I confess no great attachment to the ecumenicism that has so energized the rest of you, I know disaster when I see it—and
Borja and his rapine and persecution are that disaster. We need to come to a modus vivendi, to some kind of peace, all us Christians. After all, we do not exist in this world alone.” He glanced meaningfully to the east.
Larry nodded. “Which was another one of the reasons that Urban insisted upon commenting upon the outcome of this conclave: that it cannot be unmindful of the threat from the Ottomans.”
“Well, with that I can certainly agree!” Wadding exclaimed with a thump on the arm of his chair.
“Good, then hopefully you’ll see why Urban had, on the sidelines of the colloquium, already approached some of the more influential voices among the consistory, singing Bedmar’s praises. And most of them agreed—in part, because he can do something that no other man wearing a biretta can currently do.”
Bedmar nodded, understanding. “I can wait out that bloodthirsty dog. He sits upon the cathedra, but surrounded by eyes filled with hate and bellies hungry for vengeance. I sit in Brussels at the pleasure of the Hapsburgs, accepted by the populace, and deemed tolerable—at least!—by most of the nations of Europe.” Bedmar ran his finger beneath his small, pencil-thin moustache. “Urban’s moral epiphanies did not blind him to political practicalities, I see.”
Larry leaned forward. “So, if the conclave were to choose you, you would have no reservations?”
Bedmar laughed. “I would have more reservations than we have fingers and toes in the entirety of this city! But I have more reservations, and fears, about what Borja would do to any of the others in this consistory. And therefore, what he would do to the need for Christian unity in the face of a Turkish threat. A threat that Philip seems less than wroth about, I may point out.”
Wadding gulped back a horrified gasp. “Is this true?”
Bedmar nodded. “Oh, quite true. And not at all surprising. Think on it: Spain’s Hapsburgs have been all but spurned by the Austrian Hapsburgs. Who, of course, will bear the brunt of a Turk attack. And who will come to their rescue, and thus be bled dry of men and treasure? The USE certainly,” he answered, nodding at Sharon, “Venice possibly. The Knights of Malta assuredly. In short, all of Madrid’s greatest foes or irritants. And if I know Olivares, and I do, he will find a way to turn a profit on it, bargaining for trade garnishments from the Turks in exchange for standing aside and letting the rest of Europe bear the brunt of Murad IV’s attack.”
Sharon smiled. “Have you been talking to Mike Stearns?”
“No,” he said, returning her smile, “have you?”
“Enough to know that this will have repercussions for your immediate liege, Fernando, as well.”
Bedmar frowned. “Yes. To be frank, I fear for him most of all. This will push the conflict between him and Philip to the edge of, or possibly past, the breaking point. It goes well beyond the provocative title Fernando has selected, King in the Lowlands, and his refusal to answer, simply and unequivocally, whether Philip is still his suzerain. There are whispers—whispers which I understand originate from your own radios, Ambassadora—that Madrid has reason to expect a most disappointing report regarding this year’s infusion of silver from the New World, to say nothing of the state of the Flota that was sent to carry it.”
Wadding frowned. “I claim no great knowledge of such things, but would not the Flota have just arrived in the New World? How could its fate already be known? At this time, it would be carrying a mere fraction of its silver.”
“That is true,” Bedmar agreed. “And yet, there are the whispers. Aren’t there, Ambassadora?”
Sharon’s smile was somehow both friendly and feral. “No comment, Your Eminence.”
Bedmar chuckled. “I see that we shall get along famously. At any rate, if, for some mysterious reason, Spain does not get the New World silver she expects this year, that shall send her down into a financial maelstrom. She will be more desperate for Ottoman trade and coin, and will have to give greater concessions to get it, since Istanbul will have heard of her fiscal vulnerability. And so, the reales that Spain sends to prop up the occupation forces in the Spanish Lowlands will become twice as dear. Philip’s patience with an upstart brother who refuses to bend his knee may very well fray to the point of breaking. And if that occurs…well, it is difficult to see how my King Fernando will fare.”
Sharon nodded. “This has been considered. Contingencies, many related to ongoing enterprises and developments in the New World, are in place. Also, however dire circumstances become for the Spanish Lowlands, they’re going to be a lot worse for Borja’s Italy. Every cardinal he killed there was also a major member of a noble family. And in those places that were never too fond of the Spanish presence in Milan and Naples, it’s worse. Much worse. He’s angered every noble family in Florence, Tuscany, and Venice. And the commoners in a lot of the other regions hate him just as much. So, as we see it in the USE, Borja is poised to become Macbeth in the final scene of the play of that name, all alone on the ramparts of Dunsinane. The Spanish won’t want to touch him because of his murderous papal ambitions, and, with a few exceptions, the cardinals of his ‘consistory-held-at-gunpoint,’ are just waiting for an opportunity to cut and run.”
Sharon leaned back. “Our assessment is that before two years are up, the Spanish are going to be having a hard time just holding on to Naples, and the cost of doing so is that Oruna will have to leave Borja out to dry.”
Bedmar grinned. “When you put it that way, the notion of becoming pope almost sounds, well, appealing.”
Larry nodded. “Good. But there’s a catch.”
Bedmar frowned. “And what is this ‘catch’?”
Sharon shrugged. “We need to keep Urban’s death quiet. As in, completely secret.”
“What? How?” Wadding exclaimed.
“I believe,” Bedmar said slowly, looking from one up-timer face to the other, “the most pertinent question is ‘why,’ Cardinal Wadding.”
The Franciscan nodded vigorously.
Larry shrugged. “Because we need to elect a new pope—you—before anyone knows Urban is dead. And then, we have to give his work here time to take hold.”
“But—”
Larry held up a hand. “Luke, I’ve come to think of you as my older, kinder brother, but please: hear me out.”
Wadding blinked, nodded, and sat back in his seat.
“So, most of our guests are going to return to their homes at a whole lot more leisurely a pace than they came. And there’s no way around that. We tied up most of the USE’s hot air balloons for months and we just can’t do it again, particularly given what’s happening down along the Hungarian border.”
“So you feel certain that the Turk’s attack upon Christendom is so imminent? Even if the kings of Europe can quickly put aside their childish bickering?”
Larry nodded. “I don’t for a second think that Murad IV is undertaking this out of religious fervor, though. Sure, that’s his rhetoric, and I’m sure he believes it at some level, but he’s an autocrat who can detect weakness and seize a moment, and he has both the money and manpower to do it.
“He knows that our nations are already in disarray. But if he then sees half of them swinging first in the direction of Urban’s ecumenicism, only to learn that Urban has since been assassinated by Spain and that all his transformative work might die with him, that’s a further encouragement to Murad. And the last thing we want the sultan to think is that this is the time to accelerate his campaign, to take advantage of our internal debates. If Urban’s ecumenical initiative is going to take root and unify us, it needs some time to do so, time before the news goes out that its creator is dead.”
Bedmar hid a thin smile behind steepled fingers. “That does not sound like you talking, Cardinal Mazzare. Again, that sounds much more like Michael Stearns.”
“It should—which, by the way, just goes to show how useful radios really are.”
“So, practically speaking, what does this mean?”
“It means that the cardinals will be tied down here for several months. L
uckily the consistory sometimes closets itself during Councils, particularly when the matters being discussed are particularly sensitive. Since the matter of ecumenicism may be the most provocative topic that could be raised right now, closed sessions and removal from the public eye shouldn’t raise many eyebrows. Otherwise, this would be impossible.”
Sharon sighed. “Of course, that in turn means we’re going to have to increase security. We can’t have any of the cardinals being snatched and debriefed, or any of their staff, or scribes gabbing around town. At the same time, we’re going to have to share the information with some parties that we’d rather not, and that’s going to require us committing to the normalization of diplomatic relations before we really wanted to. For instance, Bernhard has to be told. This is his capital and he’ll figure out pretty quickly that something fishy is going on, what with all these cardinals here under tight security. So tight that they are always under guard. That means there’s going to have to be more quid pro quo with Bernhard, and trust me, you don’t want to be in that man’s debt.”
“And what might come of that?”
Sharon shrugged. “He’ll probably get more bold about grabbing land on the western banks of the Rhine. Not USE territory, but there are lots of little principalities or independent cities that he might like to gobble up. We’ve been trying to make that financially, politically, or in some cases, even militarily unattractive to him. But if he’s got to keep our secret—well, then he’s going to have leverage. And he’ll use it.”
Bedmar nodded. “I see. Lawrence, you said something about a second directive from Urban—a papal circular?”
Larry bowed his head. “Yes. Urban has been working on it for months, with some help from Cardinal Wadding and myself.”
Wadding shook his head. “Lawrence overreports my labors and underreports his own. Profoundly.”
Larry smiled. “Don’t listen to the crown prince of blarney over there. We both put a lot of work into this.”
