by Eric Flint
"Radio, I expect," Maria Anna answered.
"It would be nice to have a radio," Cecelia Renata said wistfully. "I've read about them, these 'crystal sets.' Ordinary villagers in the USE have them now and can listen to the Voice of America."
"You're not going to get one." Maria Anna, ever practical, squelched that hope as soon as it was born. "Not, at least, unless someone smuggles one into Austria for you. You'd have to hide it. Papa would have apoplexy and your confessor would have a stroke."
"I'm not sure how far a person can hear with them, anyway. But I'd be willing to try." Cecelia Renata, as usual, was not repentant. "There is a radio in Amsterdam, although it belongs to the USE embassy and not Fredrik Hendrik. They use towers. Tall towers. From Amsterdam, reports go to Magdeburg, I assume. And to the Swede, wherever he is at the moment. That is rapid. Almost at once, or at least as fast as the operator can send this 'Morse Code.' I need to learn more about how that works."
"What is this 'Morse code'? A cypher?"
"I suppose it could send something that had been cyphered." Cecelia Renata looked thoughtful. "But from the encyclopedia, it seems just a way of sending the letters of the alphabet by way of these radios. Maybe it is not always encyphered. Stearns' administration does not seem to be as obsessed as some regimes I will not mention with keeping everything a secret."
"Don't say that to Mariana. She loves our brother Ferdinand and is very loyal to him, but she still will not listen to a word against Philip IV."
"Magdeburg is crawling with spies. Grantville is, too. So then just a courier from Magdeburg or Grantville to here? A week once the newspaper reporter learns the information?" The tone of Cecelia Renata's voice made the statement into a question.
Doña Mencia shook her head. "There is radio in Nürnberg, too, now. Even in Amberg. Although the one in Nürnberg belongs to the city council and the one in Amberg to Duke Ernst. Still, your father has agents there, so the newspapers do too, I am sure."
"Agents?" Cecelia Renata giggled. "Say 'spies.' I said 'spies.' You mean 'spies.'"
"Agents," Doña Mencia said firmly. "Especially in Amberg. Not that it probably makes much difference how loose Stearns' people are, since obsessively-secretive administrations tend to be leaky as sieves also. Just think of the French. I was astounded that they managed to keep the League of Ostend a secret until the Battle of Dunkirk last year. So... it really just needs a courier from Amberg to Vienna. Much less than a week, by way of Passau."
Doña Mencia bit her upper lip. Should she or shouldn't she? "I have received letters from Brussels, also."
"Isn't your brother, Cardinal Bedmar, still in Venice?"
"Yes. Alphonso writes regularly. He has been observing the USE embassy with great interest. The ambassadress is a Moor, you know. But I have letters from Brussels, as well. When we were both much younger than we are now, before the infanta's marriage to Archduke Albrecht, I had the honor to serve as her lady-in-waiting for several years. She was gracious enough to give me her friendship."
Maria Anna narrowed her eyes. She had not been told about that part of her chief attendant's past.
Doña Mencia continued. "We do correspond regularly. She wrote me a very interesting description of her interview with Gretchen Richter. Gretchen Higgins as those up-timers would have it. Ridiculous thing, to call a woman by the name of her husband! Absurd, even. A person's surname is properly determined by the provisions in her parents' marriage contract."
"And you didn't read it to us?" Cecelia Renata wailed.
"I relent. Now that you know I have it, I will share it with you."
"Doña Mencia, you're an angel on earth."
"No, Your Highness," that lady replied after a brief, meditative, pause. "No, I am not. Not an angel. But..."
"But what?"
"Because of that old friendship, with Isabella Clara Eugenia's approval, I receive letters from some of her close advisers as well. Occasionally from Rubens. More recently from Alessandro Scaglia."
"The Savoyard? She has taken him into her confidence?"
"Not without questions from some other members of her circle, but yes. He tells me that Don Fernando received Señora Rebecca Abrabanel—please observe that she is not sufficiently stupid to call herself Rebecca Stearns; indeed, she is not stupid at all, from what I hear—for a formal dinner at his quarters. That was two days after the tercios moved out to Grol. Rubens was there also. So was Scaglia himself. And..."
"Tell!" Cecelia Renata jumped off the bed, scattering newspapers. "Tell!"
"Gretchen Richter and her husband also."
"Splendid," Maria Anna said. "Yes. Tell. But what I really need to know is why those tercios have only moved as far as Grol."
* * * *
Susanna Allegretti was quite certain that she should not have been present at this conversation. It wasn't just that she was small and standing quietly. It was that she was a servant. Great lords and ladies tended to forget that servants were there.
The archduchesses were lucky that she was trustworthy.
She took a private vow to be worthy of their trust. Forever. Even though, really, they did not realize that they were trusting her.
Chapter 17
Honoris Causa
General Banér's siege lines, outside Ingolstadt
Dane Kitt and Mark Ellis understood one another very well. They had started kindergarten together and graduated from high school together. Both of them were solid students, but not brilliant. Both came from the kind of family in which reasonably good behavior and reasonably good grades were not regarded as negotiable. Both of them had decided to live at home and commute to Fairmont State to save money. Dane had majored in mechanical engineering and Mark in civil engineering. They were both third year students when the Ring of Fire hit. They had even talked, sometimes, of starting their own firm some day—one that would specialize in projects for rural areas and small towns, the kind of things that the big boys turned up their noses at.
Neither of them wanted to be here, attached to Banér. All the more so since the Swedish commander of Gustav Adolf's military forces in the Upper Palatinate had recently decided to bring most of his army out of their billets in order to besiege the Bavarian fortified town of Ingolstadt. Boring and unpleasant garrison duty might be, but at least it was reasonably safe. This probably wouldn't be, as time went on.
No high-flying heroics for them, thank you; no dramatic romances with down-time women. The previous year, Dane had married Jailyn Wyatt, one of the WVU girls who had been at Rita Stearns' wedding. Mark was engaged to Stephanie Elias, the younger daughter of Grantville's second dentist. What they really, really, wanted was for Gustav Adolf to win this stupid war, so they could go back home and live a normal life.
For which reason they were throwing themselves heart and soul into the winning of it. Mark just had more trouble getting the down-time military types to pay attention to him. Terry Johnson, his mother, had been ingesting all sorts of things that she shouldn't while she was producing him and his twin sister Mackenzie out of wedlock. No one knew for sure if that was the reason, but in spite of everything that his Aunt Amanda and her husband Price Ellis had done after they adopted them, the twins had ended up being pretty unimpressive physically.
Dane's folks, on the other hand, had chosen his name because he looked like a Viking when he was born. He still looked like a Viking—a sort of thin and weedy one, not a Hagar the Horrible type. Dane had played basketball. So, people around the camp paid more attention to him than they did to Mark. Even if General Banér had once remarked, "Why did they have to name you fucking Dane? Why not Swede?"
Hearing some sort of ruckus outside their tent, Dane unwound himself from where he was sitting, which was a gray metal folding chair with thin yellow vinyl cushions on the seat and back and a matching card table with a yellow vinyl top. He had liberated both from his late Grandma Sadie's bridge club supplies, packed them into his baggage when he was sent to Amberg, brought them along to Ingol
stadt, and insisted that he couldn't possibly fight this war without them.
Given the kind of fighting that he did most of the time, he might have been right. Back home in Grantville, his parents were working frantically on aviation and associated things, sort of but not exactly parallel to what Jesse Wood and Hal Smith were doing. He was supposed to figure out whether anything they had developed so far might give Banér just that little edge that he needed to bring this siege off successfully.
To this point, the answer was "no." By seventeenth century standards, Ingolstadt's fortifications were quite impressive. Any reasonably sized fleet of World War II era bombers could have reduced it to rubble in half an hour. For that matter, if Admiral Simpson's ironclads could somehow be brought down to the Danube, he could have done much the same in the course of a single day's bombardment, with those absurdly powerful ten-inch guns. Dane and Mark had once reduced themselves to a fit of semi-hysterical laughter conjuring up ways that might be done. The least implausible scheme had involved using giant fleets of dirigibles to hoist the ironclads out of the Elbe and drop them into the Danube. Some of the same dirigibles could then be used to keep the ironclads from running aground in the Danube.
Remembering that conversation, Dane muttered to himself. "Blue Danube, my ass." He'd never seen the Danube, back up-time—he'd never traveled anywhere outside the United States—but whatever state of pristine blue riverness it had enjoyed in the late twentieth century, it enjoyed none of it in the here and now.
It wasn't really even "a" river, to begin with. At least in this stretch of its course, the Danube was usually divided into several branches. It meandered across southern Germany like a watery braid, not a single well-defined stream. Each and every one of which braids—tributaries, branches, whatever they were called—was muddy brown.
"What was that?" asked Mark, getting up from his own folding chair. He'd brought one also, of course.
Dane was moving toward the tent entrance. "Blue Danube, my ass," he repeated. "We ought to be doing something useful, like re-inventing the Army Corps of Engineers."
Mark smiled. "Isn't that the truth? A lot of American rivers were just as messed up, originally. So much for the glories of pristine nature, huh?"
Dane had now reached the entrance and was moving the flap aside. "What's the commotion out there?" he wondered.
Mark came up to join him. The sound of General Banér's unlovely voice raised in anger was clearly audible. Clearly recognizable, too. They'd both gotten very familiar with that sound.
Outside, in the distance, they could see the walls of Ingolstadt. In the foreground, standing in front of some sort of bizarre apparatus, they could see Banér hollering at Duke Ernst and waving his arms about.
If the Swedish general's normal state of mind was choleric, that of the German administrator of the Upper Palatinate was serene. He was responding to Banér's protest with his usual expression of imperturbability.
Well... "serene" wasn't quite the right word. It just had the advantage of brevity. Dane and Mark had both gotten to know Duke Ernst rather well since they'd arrived. This particular one of the four Wettin brothers who had once been the rulers of Thuringia was almost diametrically the opposite of the youngest brother Bernhard, by all accounts they'd heard, so far as his personality and view of life were concerned. Where Bernhard was driven by personal ambition, Ernst was driven by duty. Where Bernhard's ego required constant personal gratification, Ernst's seem to require nothing beyond his sense that God approved of his actions. Where Bernhard did not suffer fools gladly and suffered personal insult not at all, Ernst seemed oblivious to such issues.
Not exactly "serene," but awfully close. And the word was a lot handier to use than calm and unruffled in the face of adversity, certain that he was doing his duty both in the eyes of Lawful Authority and the Creator.
"What the hell..." Mark was giving most of his attention to the weird contraption, not the two men quarreling. "Jesus, Dane, that's a catapult."
Dane looked. Sure enough, that very moment, the contraption went into operation. What he'd taken at first glance for an earth-moving scoop turned out to be the propulsive arm—whatever that was called—of the artillery device. A moment later, the arm whanged into a restraining crossbar and a small crate of some sort was flung over the walls of Ingolstadt.
"Damned impressive range," Mark murmured. "Hey, Mike and his guys used something like this to toss napalm onto the Wartburg. D'you think..."
Dane frowned, considering the idea. "Well... I don't know. The Wartburg was a real castle. Lots of stuff in it that could catch fire." He gestured with his chin toward Ingolstadt. "I suppose we could burn the town itself down, but I can't see where napalm would do much good against stone and earth berms. And the duke wants the town kept as intact as possible. So does Banér, for that matter. He wants to be able to station his troops in Ingolstadt, when and if he takes it. Can't do that if the place is all in cinders. Still..."
He and Mark looked back at the Swedish general. Banér was still in full protest mode. Arm-waving, red faced, voluble, the works.
Such an unlovely sight. Not to mention sound.
Dane shrugged. "Let's think about it some. Beats getting in the middle of that."
He led the way back inside the tent.
* * * *
"—the king hears about this—"
"His Majesty gave me clear instructions to foster the true Lutheran doctrine here," Ernst interrupted Banér. He gestured toward Ingolstadt. "Since it will obviously take you months to reduce the will of yonder Catholics, I see no reason I shouldn't see to their souls and their moral conduct in the meantime."
"—be royal hell to pay—Vasa hell, I remind you—"
"Oh, nonsense. And what do you care if I fling some religious tracts and self-improvement pamphlets into Ingolstadt?" A bit uncharitably, Ernst added: "It's not as if either you or your soldiers have been clamoring for the items."
"—beside the fucking point! Catapults are military equipment—"
"I had them made myself, out of my purse, not yours."
"—in charge of all military affairs, not you—"
"Spiritual uplift is a military concern?" Ernst finally had something of an expression on face, with his eyebrows climbing. "In that case, General Banér, I must regretfully inform you that you and your officers have been sadly remiss—"
"—last time the Vasa temper cut loose, noble heads rolled!"
The Duke shrugged. "Send a letter to the Emperor in Luebeck, then, if you will. I will await his response quite calmly, be assured."
All the more so, he thought but did not say aloud, since I have already sent Gustav Adolf several letters myself, warning him of your plans for an independent campaign against Ingolstadt.
In one thing, if nothing else, all four of the Saxe-Weimar brothers had imbibed the same milk. They were all experienced practitioners in the art of political maneuver.
"—could probably have paved the streets of Stockholm with the skulls, if the king's grandfather had been a pagan."
"Which he certainly wasn't," concluded Ernst firmly. "Gustav Vasa was a good Lutheran. Hence—"
He gestured a command. The catapult fired again.
* * * *
Two days later, in the chambers of a nearby tavern that Banér had sequestered as his headquarters for the duration of the siege, the Swedish general was in a much calmer mood. In fact, he was as close to "serene" as the man ever got.
Which was not close at all, of course. Still, Duke Ernst knew the signs. Now that the energetic and very-difficult-to-repress if not exactly irrepressible Banér was finally back in action in the field, he was a lot more content than he had been as what amounted to a garrison commander in Amberg. Furthermore, despite appearances, the Swedish general was very far from a buffoon. There was actually quite a keen military mind in there somewhere, beneath the choler and the dramatics.
Banér laid down the report he'd just summarized for Ernst and leaned back in h
is chair at the table. "So. Duke Bernhard did not send his regiments north to join de Valois at Luebeck. In my assessment"—he waved a contemptuous hand at the report—"unlike that of this over-intellectual spy, this only signifies that the man isn't stupid."
Duke Ernst nodded. "Over time, people have called my youngest brother Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar a lot of things. Arrogant. Inconsiderate. Ambitious. Rude. 'Stupid' was never one of them."
Banér grunted. "Nobody ever called him 'incompetent' either."
Ernst leaned back in his chair also, and contemplated the situation. To the best intelligence that Sweden and the USE had been able to collect, Bernhard had responded to Richelieu's repeated prodding by sending part of his troops sort of halfway toward the north. He had left most of his infantry in the Franche-Comté and taken himself, Friedrich von Kanoffski, and their picked companies north through the Breisgau, settling for the past couple of weeks into the monastery buildings at Schwarzach on the Rhine—not that he wouldn't be heading back to Besançon pretty soon, most likely. He'd set up his administrative headquarters there. Bernhard had sent Caldenbach, Ohm, and Rosen, with the rest of his cavalry, toward Mainz, apparently to provide a screen against any moves that Gustav might be contemplating there. Or, possibly, to make the USE nervous about the possibility that he might launch raids in the direction of Thuringia.
He spoke that last aloud. "It certainly isn't impossible that Bernhard's men could get as far as Fulda, or do a razzia against the towns in the Werra valley on the south face of the Thüringerwald."
Banér scowled. Not in displeasure; that was simply his usual expression when he was thinking. "I've worked with those captains of his, Duke. All three of Bernhard's cavalry units facing Mainz have something in common. They can move very fast when they need to. Maybe Bernhard does intend to send at least a token force to support the French regiments outside Luebeck. But then again—maybe that isn't what he intends. Fast is fast, no matter what direction it might be headed."
