by Eric Flint
"The archduchess' prayer book. Her rosary, quite a beautiful one." The little man looked around; walked forward, first placing his hand on the pedestal of the prie-dieu, then on the table next to it. "And the golden rose; the papal rose. Those I can see, at the very least."
He left the oratory. "Secure the room. Leave a guard at the door. I will wish to look at it again in the morning, in daylight."
He came into the bedchamber; paced around it twice, finding nothing of interest. He moved to the antechamber, repeated the pacing, and paused by a small table with a book lying on it. Almost reflexively, he riffled through the pages of the book, drawing out the bookmark.
Father Drexel's Schola Patientiae. Not a book he cared for. Irenic; gently ironic. Too much focused on the penitent, too little on the impenitent. It was, he had been told, popular as spiritual reading even among the Protestants. The king of Denmark supposedly owned a copy and read it. That, by itself, should be sufficient evidence that it was doctrinally unsound.
He looked at the note. Nodded his head slowly. In this life, unfortunately, double agents were not uncommon. Greedy people, who collected money for informing each side about the other.
He looked at the seamstress. "Frau Stecher," he asked, "would you be interested in explaining this to me? Here? Or would you prefer to wait for judicial questioning?"
Frau Stecher backed up a few steps. "Explain what?"
"Why," the little man said. "This note to you from Countess Polyxena. I find it quite fascinating. She thanks you very graciously for providing the archduchess with the clothing that she wore this morning when she left Munich."
"She does, does she?" Frau Stecher knew that there were some things which could never, in the eyes of the inquisition, be adequately explained. "Well, the damned little bitch!"
****
Finally. Susanna had reached the proper door with Dona Mencia. Carefully, she removed the small sprig of pungent sage that someone had bound to the latch, to guide the archduchess' attendant in case the corridor was completely dark. Carefully, she pushed it open and looked around. It was just a small room.
"Where are we?" she asked rather anxiously.
"In the old nurseries for Duchess Mechthilde's sons," Dona Mencia replied. "This is the room in which their wet nurse slept. No one comes here, any more. The young dukes moved to larger rooms a long time ago. They have their own household already, tutors, governesses. They are much too old for nursemaids and toys."
Susanna looked around. There was a carafe of fresh water on the table; a plate of fruit. She lifted the cover of the bowl. Cheese. A basin and pitcher; a towel; a commode. A clean shift on the small bed; fresh sheets. A small prayer book on the stand next to it. Dona Mencia was expected.
"Your Ladyship," she said. "I hate to leave you. But you are safe here. As safe as we can make you."
Dona Mencia reached out. "Stay with me, child."
Susanna shook her head. "Duchess Mechthilde offered her protection to you; not to me. It will be hard enough for her to hide one person; two double the risk. Also, the others will be waiting for me, and every minute that they wait is dangerous for them, too." She led Dona Mencia to a chair, placed a hassock under her feet, and backed out into the servants' corridor.
****
Susanna had no intention of retracing her steps. She was already in a different wing of the Residenz, on a different floor from where the archduchess' household had been staying. She walked along briskly. Into a third wing, then up a set of stairs; up another, into the lofts. Through the servants' quarters, into another loft. Down again. Into the kitchens, where dozens of temporary helpers were sleeping in every available corner. Into the herb garden; into the pleasure garden. It was still the late, late twilight of summer; a few couples were walking along the paths, unaware that anything unusual was happening in the palace. It was a very large building, with multiple courtyards and wings.
Out into the street. Turn north. That should lead to the Isar gate; from there she could go outside the walls to where Nep and the others were supposed to wait for her. People coming back from the gate; guards; people being turned back. She stopped, turned with the flow of traffic, listened to what they were saying. The gates were closed for the night. She couldn't get to the others until morning.
She kept walking. A man and wife with several children were just in front of her. She walked as if she were with them, trying to think. She was on her own. Really on her own; that had never happened before. In a strange city. Well, most of it was strange, certainly. Since coming to Munich, she had never, except for coming in with the wedding procession, been anywhere except the Residenz, to the Schrannenplatz , and to the house of the English Ladies. She didn't have any money; Nep had the purse.
Where could she go? Not back to the Residenz, certainly. Not to the Schrannenplatz on a festival night. Even in a city as well policed as Munich, it was bound to be full of drunk, boisterous, men. She felt in her pocket. The key to the house in Paradise Street. It would be empty. She could take refuge for the night there and think again in the morning.
Early in the morning. Before the cook arrived to find the Ladies gone and turn in an alarm.
Chapter 44
Amicitia Plena
Munich, Bavaria
Susanna knew where she was, even though it was starting to get dark. The next street would be Paradise Street. She turned into the alley behind it, intending to take a shortcut to the back door of the house.
"Fraulein," a man's voice called softly. "Fraulein, don't."
She looked up. It was the young iron smith she had been noticing for several days. Up on a ladder, working on a grille on one of the back windows of the house next door.
"Why not?"
****
Marc wondered what on earth he could say to persuade her that he was one of the "good guys," as Toby Snell would have called them.
"The Ladies left this morning. I saw them go. But since then, men came. Guards. Two friars. They went into the house. They haven't even posted a notice on the door. I think that they are waiting to see who comes. To arrest anyone who comes."
Susanna stopped.
"What am I going to do now?"
Marc climbed down the ladder. They weren't speaking loudly, but he wasn't certain that the house on which he had been working was still empty. Everyone lodging there had left in the morning for the play. He hadn't seen any of them return, or heard them, but he had been working in the back. Better to be safe.
"Right now, you can sit right here. Under the ladder, in the corner next to the cellar entrance. Once it gets full dark, I know a place where you can hide. But not until then. It's where somebody inside the Ladies' house, looking out the kitchen window, could see us. And I'm pretty sure that there is somebody standing there."
Susanna sat. Mark climbed back up the ladder and continued working until he couldn't see properly any more. It was a very long hour. It was another long hour before he thought that it was safe for them to go into the shed.
As he pulled open the loose hinge, he whispered, "Not the stuff of stories, where there are always gaily decorated tents or sylvan bowers available. But I've spent the night in here before. I can at least promise that there aren't too many bugs."
They each took a corner. About midnight, it started to rain. The lean-to was not built on a foundation; the boards just met the ground. The roof leaked; not a lot, but some. Steady drips. The water draining off the cobblestones in the alley was worse; first a few trickles. Then little rivulets.
"Move over a little," Mark said. I'll pull these boards down and make a platform to get us up out of the puddles. It won't be comfortable. There aren't many of them." He managed to stack three short ones at each end and find two that were long enough to reach most of the length of the shed-all four feet of it.
Susanna sat on her board, pulled up her knees, and wrapped her skirts around her legs.
"It could be worse, you know," she said.
"It could?"
"Yeah. Right."
****
"You." Susanna shook Marc's shoulder.
"Unnh?"
"You. Don't we need to get out of the shed before it starts to get light? Unless we want them to see us when we climb through the door?"
"Lord, yes. Ooof. I can't believe that I actually went to sleep. Wait a minute. I need to stack these boards back." He was feeling of them, matching wet end to wet end. "No sense in leaving evidence that someone's been in here. If someone just glances in, maybe he'll just think that they got wet from a leak if it's all turned on the same side. At least the leather hinges will have gotten soaked last night, so nobody will see at first glance that the rip is new."
He finished stacking the boards, wriggled out through the open space, and held it for her. They quickly crossed to the other side of the alley; hugging the backs of the houses, they went out into the street.
"What next?" Susanna asked.
"At this hour? Get something to eat. It will start getting light in a little while. Vendors will be setting up, to catch the workers coming to tear down the bleachers and clean up the sets and stuff like that. I don't think we look too bad. Not sodden wet or anything. Maybe you should tie your hair back again, though." Marc paused, trying to gather up the essence of all the wisdom his elders had been trying to teach him the last few years. It seemed to amount to this. "Whatever you're going to be doing, always try to eat first. Things always look better after you've eaten. Let's get over to the market."
Susanna shook her head. "I don't have any money. None at all."
"I do. Not more than a workman should have, but enough to get some breakfast. So let's go."
By the time they got to the marketplace, the first food sellers were setting up their stands. He ordered two equal portions and water.
Susanna ate half of hers. Marc ate all of his and was now demolishing the rest of hers. He practically inhaled food. She smiled. "No dainty morsels, either."
"What?"
"In the stories. When knights and ladies have gaily decorated tents and sylvan bowers, the food is always dainty morsels, too. Never pork sausages on rye buns, with kraut on the side."
Marc managed to swallow the bite in his mouth before he laughed.
****
The sausage vendor looked at them. Young people, he thought enviously. They never have a care in the world.
****
"Next," Marc said, "we've got to get out to where I'm camped. Through the gates. Better try the Schwabinger gate. I've been coming in and out for several days. If the regular guards are on, they'll sort of know my face."
"I ought to go out the Wurtzer gate. I told my… friends… to wait for me there."
"What if your friends are on the guards' list of people they're looking for, too? Are they?" Marc asked.
"Yes, probably," Susanna admitted.
"Then I hope that if they got out last night, they had the sense to keep going. And if they did, you'll never find them. You'll just be standing outside the Wurtzer gate by yourself with no money. Stick with me."
He headed for the Schwabinger gate.
Susanna fretted. "There are going to be a lot of people trying to go out this morning. More than they were planning on. I was by the Isar gate last night when the closed it up. Lots of people were turned back. It was probably the same at all the others. If you look around, an awful lot of the people look like they slept on somebody's floor or in the streets. So the crowds will be bigger than they were expecting. We'll just have to get in the lines."
They didn't have any problems, aside from having to wait. Marc didn't look a thing like any of the people the guards had been warned to watch out for. Susanna's name was actually on their list, way down. But the description was only, "small woman, light brown hair." That covered at least ten percent of the women in the crowd; possibly more, since it didn't say anything about her age.
There's only so much that a guard company can accomplish overnight.
****
The stuff was there. It was also, owing to Marc's prudence with the oilcloth the previous morning, dry. He shook out the oilcloth and laid it down for Susanna to sit on.
"Next," he said, "I have to sell the horse."
"What?"
"Papa and I rode down from Neuburg. He took his horse when he left. Mine's still here. If we take him with us, it will draw attention; a horse is fine for a prosperous merchant, but not for someone dressed like I am right now. We can't just leave him here, either. Ordinary people don't go off and leave their horses behind. It's the sort of thing that will be noticed. Besides, we're going to need the money. Just stay sitting here until I get back. You'll be safe enough. The duke's inspectors have kept the camp really well policed, clean and safe. If anyone does, er, accost you or something, just yell. A watchman will turn up in no time."
He sold the horse to the manager of the camp, explaining that his father had bought a cart with a team that was used to working together and he didn't want to bother leading this one behind it. The manager wasn't surprised. Unlike a lot of noblemen, who spoiled their horses, a merchant mainly just thought of them as a way to get his goods from here to there; bought one when he needed it, sold it when he didn't. They dickered a bit, but it wasn't a transaction worth a lot of dickering. Marc got about what he expected; the manager paid about what he thought the beast was worth and told a boy to go move it from the private tethering to the common paddock.
"Harness?" he asked.
"What was on him when Papa bought him. Plain bridle; the saddle is pretty well fitted. Decent saddle blanket, no holes."
The manager named a sum. Marc took it, stuffing the coins into his purse.
****
Susanna sat on the oilcloth, thinking. She hadn't been accosted. If she was, she couldn't really yell. That would attract a watchman, sure, but then he might think that she was a fugitive and turn her over to the guards. She saw Marc coming back. She wondered what he was planning next.
"That's that," he said. "Next, we need to pack this stuff and try to catch up with Papa."
Susanna looked up. She felt vaguely comforted. Never once, not in a single book she had read or play she had seen, had a villainous seducer started his campaign against the heroine's virtue by announcing his intention to consult his father about the matter.
Not that the young ironsmith seemed like he would be a villainous seducer. He would probably be sort of nice about the whole thing. But respectable girls didn't let themselves be seduced, not even by nice young men. When respectable girls were old enough, they got betrothed and then married, which involved parental consent and marriage contracts and dowries and stuff. Seduction led to having a baby and losing your place at court and spending the rest of your life spinning rough flax in an institution for penitent magdalens and never, ever, getting to make beautiful clothing of velvet and satin, damask and brocade, again.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Marc Cavriani. Who are you?"
"Susanna Allegretti." She let out a torrent of Italian. "I'm a seamstress. I'm apprenticed to Frau Stecher. I'm from Florence but my parents are working in Tyrol."
"I'm from Geneva. My father is a merchant. I was traveling with him. I have four little sisters."
****
Marc looked down. Little sister. That was a really good idea. He would treat her as a little sister; he could handle little sisters. If he didn't treat her like his sister, well… That sort of thing led to carnal temptation which led to fornication, which was definitely a sin, and fornication led to having a baby and having to get married years before Papa and Mama planned for you to, so that you couldn't finish your training, and some of the guilds wouldn't want your son for a member and other families looked at you funny and wouldn't want their sons to marry your daughter and, well, bad things. Plus, she was a Catholic. Had to be, going back and forth to a
house where nuns lived. Even if they weren't very nunnish.
"I'm an only child. And it's my stepfather, really. My own father died when I was a little girl."
****
Susanna knew that she was chattering. Bad habit. She knew that. While she chattered, she was thinking. Geneva? That was Calvinist. He was a heretic? Well, why should she be surprised? After all, he had been watching the house where the two Grantville women had been held, and all the newspapers said that Grantville was a nearly demoniacal mix of every imaginable religious faith, most of them heretical.
Marc could follow what she was saying, sort of, but the dialects of Italian that they spoke were even more variant than their German dialects. Her Italian was very Tuscan; his highly French-influenced. After a few minutes, they lapsed back into German.
"Let's pack. We've got to get going."
****
Some distance down the road, Marc spotted a hedge. A nice, thick hedge that would screen anybody behind it from the road. He steered Susanna to it.
"We can't go on the way we are. Not far. Not if they're looking for you. And I think that they are."
"I don't have anything else to wear." Susanna shrugged.
"We are," Marc said firmly, "or we will be, a journeyman and apprentice. A newly qualified journeyman. A new, very young, very junior, and not very adept apprentice. An apprentice who is a boy," he added, suddenly remembering that Susanna actually was an apprentice. There weren't that many trades in which girls apprenticed. "At least, when they ask what we are, we'll both be telling the truth."
"I do not," Susanna pointed out, "have any boy's clothing."
"Oh, lucky for you, I do. It won't fit, of course, but that's all to the good. Very junior apprentices are usually clothed in hand-me-downs that are droopy in some spots and hitched up with belts in other spots."
