1635: The Papal Stakes

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

As Sharon watched, the second dirigible that the USE had leased for its Mediterranean operations appeared between the rounded crests of the northern Berici Hills, heading east. Other members of her recently reconstituted but still displaced embassy looked up to see it pass.

“There’s our ride,” murmured Larry Mazzare, beside her.

“Your ride,” she corrected. “That one is only returning as far as Chur.” She frowned. “I probably shouldn’t ask, but do you have any idea where Urban is going to go after getting there?”

Mazzare shrugged. “No idea; I’ll send a message from wherever we wind up.”

Sharon put a hand on the small-town priest’s arm. “And again I probably shouldn’t ask, but are you sure you want to go with him?”

“Want to?” Larry’s laugh was sudden and short. “Speaking as an individual, I most certainly do not want to. I just want to go back home, like you. But speaking as a priest, I want to go wherever he goes, come what may. Besides, Urban needs me, both as a cardinal in whatever Consistory he can summon to him, and as a radio-equipped emissary from the USE. At least he’s arranged for excellent security-and is scooping up more all the time. And ever since Urban’s survival was announced, and attested to by the priests who met us in Vincenza last week, most of the papal troops have stopped responding-even halfheartedly-to Borja’s orders.”

Sharon leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Is it true that Urban made one or two of the bishops who came to see him in Vincenza cardinals in pectore?”

Mazzare glared at her. “Who told you that?”

“No one. Well, actually you did, by the way you just reacted.” She smiled sweetly at Larry.

Mazzare muttered, “Remind me not to play poker with you.” They shared a small smile and looked out over the small, remote valley just a day south of Vincenza; although sparsely settled by the standards of the Venetian Republic, the smattering of houses on the lush green hills produced a sensation of overcrowding after weeks in the almost uninhabited mountains around Molini. “Will you miss it?” Mazzare asked suddenly.

“Miss what? Italy?”

“No. Being an ambassador.”

“Well, maybe a bit.” Sharon, you are such a liar; one half of you is dying to get home and get reacquainted with real honest-to-goodness running water, and the other half is screaming that it’s like the old song says, “you can’t go home again”-because what will ever compare to all this? Damn; I’m probably borderline PTSD now, but I’ve never felt so alive, and useful, and needed in my whole life. And how much is Ruy going to want a quiet domestic life? Hell, how much do I want it-if at all? “It was a lot more dangerous than I anticipated,” she added after a moment.

“Well, danger should not be a problem for those of us traveling with Urban, now. As soon the pope’s personal friends heard he was alive, they started sending their most trusted retainers to join him. And the growing radio network north of the Alps has certainly accelerated the pace at which news of his survival has been spreading.”

Ruy’s voice rose behind them. “Yes, I have heard as much. I just finished decoding the latest messages from both the USE and the Low Countries. Given the guard contingents our pope’s many friends are sending, it sounds as though the papal entourage may well be the safest place in Christendom. Also, the leadership of both the USE and the Low Countries have agreed to the pope’s choice of a personal security chief.”

Mazzare frowned. “Why was the consent of both states required?”

“Ah, because the poor fool Urban requested for the job has ties to both polities.”

Sharon heard the odd emphasis upon “poor fool” and turned to face Ruy. “You? He chose you?”

“Ah, you see? My magnificent wife misses even not the subtlest hint! She is truly as quick-witted as she is beautiful.”

“Ruy! Without even asking me? How could you-?”

“Eh. About that, my heart. The transmission from the USE had a few desultory lines included for your lustrous self as well.”

Oh. Great. “And what are they?”

“You have been made the USE’s officially appointed envoy to the papal entourage and its official political representative to the council Urban intends to convene.”

Well, did I speak too soon about not wanting to go home, or what? And yet, truth be told, Sharon also felt relieved and perhaps just the tiniest bit excited as well. “So I guess this means we don’t get to fly back on the repaired Monster.”

“That is correct, my love. We will be in the balloon to Chur. But as I understand it, the Monster will fly along with us and oversee our safe arrival. Merely to provide assistance in the event of alpine mishaps and to show the flag to the Graubunders, as it were.”

Yeah, and to amaze and awe the natives. One of whom, come to think of it, was none other than- “That guy that Miro met with-Jenatsch-wouldn’t be so stupid as to think that he could deal a bigger hand for himself, what with a pope ripe for the plucking in his own back yard-would he?”

Ruy frowned. “He is too clever for that, I think-but, on the other hand, why trust to fate, or to the prudence of a man who left his mark on your history by employing a battle axe as readily as diplomatic nuance?”

“Exactly. So, the way I see it-”

Larry Mazzare rose. “Well, since good-byes don’t seem to be necessary any more, I’ll leave you two to your favorite pastime.”

“Our pastime?” wondered Ruy.

“What are you talking about, Larry?” said Sharon.

But with an impish smile, the cardinal had started strolling down toward the small garden.

Larry Mazzare turned into the garden’s largest, bee-busy arbor-and was almost run down by the big hidalgo whose sense of honor had overcome his oath of fealty to Philip and who had accompanied the rescuers back to Italy. And whose name he was always forgetting “Don Vincente,” Larry said, relieved that the name had come to him at the last second, “I did not see you.”

“A hundred pardons, Your Eminence. The fault was mine. I am-I am somewhat overwhelmed, I fear.”

“Overwhelmed?”

“What he means to say,” said Luke Wadding, coming up behind, “is that he just met the pope.”

“I did, yes!” gushed Don Vincente, who looked as star-struck as a schoolboy and as harmless as a restless tiger. “It was-oh, if only I could tell my family. But alas, they believe I am-”

Mazzare stretched out a hand and touched Castro y Papas on the arm. “Don Vincente, I know you worry that the news of your death may be too hard for them to bear, particularly as they are older parents. But they believe your departure was with honor; they will endure.”

He nodded. “True. And perhaps it is better that they do not know the truth: that in order to live, I forsook honor-”

“No,” Mazzare’s voice became firm. “You did not. You swore an oath to a ‘noble and holy crown’ did you not?”

“I did.”

“And so tell me, were you not compelled by the duly appointed representatives of that crown to repeatedly act in ways that were the very antithesis of holiness or nobility?”

His head hung. “I was.”

“Then, my son, it is not you who broke faith with them: it is our representatives of the crown who broke faith with you.” Don Vincente looked sideways; Larry saw-as was to be expected in a man of his age and experience-that this had already occurred to him. But as a devout Catholic, he would not presume the authority to absolve himself; that had to come from a priest-as it had now. “I can well imagine your doubts, Don Vincente; the first tenet of chivalry is that one’s virtue and honor is not contingent upon the virtue and honor of others. Just so. But your duty here was not just to yourself, but to the innocent. It may well be that we might have to pay a heavy-even an ultimate-price to abide by the oaths we swear. But should others-particularly an innocent mother and her unborn child-be compelled to pay for the keeping of our oaths, as well? The answer to that is ‘No’-and you found that answer with great speed and clarity.”

Don Vincente looked up. “Thank you, Your Eminence. This has troubled me-among other things.”

“Oh, what other things?”

Wadding commented from over the big Spaniard’s shoulder. “He’s very much looking forward to meeting Ruy-a ‘whispered legend’ he calls him. But he is, let us say ‘reluctant,’ to share what he knows about Borja, and particularly, this Pedro Dolor fellow who has been his spymaster ever since Quevedo was-er, removed.”

Don Vincente looked up quickly. “Is it true that Don Ruy slew Quevedo in single combat?”

Mazzare saw the gleam in the young man’s eye, saw the opening there that Ruy would use to get him to share his precious insider knowledge of Borja’s command structure, and simply said, “Why not go ask him yourself? He is just there, at the head of the garden.”

Mazzare returned Don Vincente’s brief nod, Wadding’s knowing smile, and walked on to where he knew the pope had retired to meditate for a while.

But turning into the next long arbor, Larry saw Urban in solemn conversation with two of the Wild Geese-Owen and Sean, from the shape of the silhouettes. Rather than turn into that shaded tunnel of bright flowers and wafting lilac, Mazzare kept walking straight on. He considered returning to his own room to pack, but decided against it; as he had left, late-sleeping Frank and Giovanna had just begun stirring in the adjacent room. And if this day was like every other thus far, Mazzare would gladly miss their loud-and vigorous-celebration of the morning and each other.

Owen had not expected that Urban would bow his head in such an extended gesture of memorial respect, but he did, staring down at the small, flat stone under which they had buried those few personal effects of John O’Neill that had been carried back from Rome. All in all, they weighed only ten pounds, but they had to remain here: Franchetti had made it very clear that any balloon of his that got tasked with carrying the pope was going to have plenty of extra fuel, a spare engine, and no unnecessary weight.

The pope murmured something short and Latin, which puzzled O’Neill, because it wasn’t any of he benedictions he was familiar with. As it was, Urban had already said a full mass for the fallen earl in Vicenza, for which Father Hickey had made the journey, looking so old and drawn that Owen wondered if he might not soon follow his dear Johnnie into the grave out of sheer grief. And here, Urban had murmured a familiar blessing and benediction when they first bowed their heads.

When the pope finally raised his chin, Owen asked, “Your Holiness, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what prayer you said there at the end.”

“Oh,” explained Urban, “that was no prayer. It was a line from a story-a story, and a line, which reminded me of your courageous-and I have heard it whispered, occasionally impetuous-cousin.”

“Ah, he’d appreciate the truth of your words, Holy Father, and I doubt he’d dispute ’em. But what were they?”

Urban put his chin up slightly. “‘But his strength and valor availed naught.’”

Sean Connal frowned. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that passage.”

Urban smiled. “It would be truly miraculous if you were, Doctor. It is from a narrative called The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, a rather ancient work from China. Father-General Vitelleschi’s missionaries in that land just sent back a translation in April. I had thought it lost-but it turns out the father-general had it all the time. He is a most resourceful man.”

“As is His Holiness,” replied Sean, “I understand that you have prevailed upon the ambassador-now, doctor, now, I suppose-to accept me as a medical trainee under her guidance. I am most grateful for this kindness, Holy Father.”

Urban laughed. “Oh, it is no kindness, Doctor. It is pure, unadulterated selfishness. It is in my own interest to ensure that I have a doctor trained to up-time standards in my retinue.”

Owen frowned. “What do you mean, ‘in your retinue,’ Your Holiness?”

Urban turned towards him with a look of such singular gravity that, for the most fleeting of moments, Owen was scared. “Colonel O’Neill,” said Urban, “you are the Pope’s Own Men.”

Still frowning, unsure at the strange nature of the compliment, Owen bowed. “We thank you humbly, Holy Father.”

Urban shook his head. “I doubt you understand what I mean…because I’m not sure you would thank me.”

Connal was the first to understood the implication. “Your Holiness, are we to understand that your comment on our being ‘your men’ was not merely a personal observation?”

Urban smiled. “You are correct. My comment was official. I will not command this, but I will ask it, for my welfare and that of this troubled Church. Will you be known as the Pope’s Own?”

“You wish us to become papal troops?” Although Owen tried to keep the tone of his inquiry deeply respectful, even in his own ears, he sounded as though he was choking on a chicken bone.

Urban shook his head. “No, no: not that. But until I may have a Swiss Guard again-if I ever do-I would take great comfort in being able to rely upon your kind and vigorous defense of my person and the Church Militant. And I have already communicated my wishes to your employer, who has replied that my choice honors him greatly, and that my trust is well and wisely placed.”

“King Fernando said that?”

“He did-along with Archduchess Isabella. They have even extended an invitation to visit there, which I might very well do. I might even convene the council in their lands.”

Owen spread his hands. “Your Holiness, how can you? The Low Countries is not a purely Catholic realm anymore.”

“Owen,” commented Sean quietly, “tell me: which realms are, at this moment, purely Catholic realms?”

The answers that first jumped into Owen’s mind-all of Spain’s possessions and Bavaria-died before they emerged from his mouth. “I see,” he observed, with a pull at his newly trimmed beard.

“And besides,” added Urban, “the Low Countries are one of the few realms that have tendered such an offer to my troublesome self.”

“Has France?”

Urban’s smile was sly. “Of course. And they offered Avignon as my papal seat-which, if I agreed to it, would be like declaring Borja the true pontiff and myself the anti-pope. No. I have many friends among the French cardinals, but Richelieu holds their reins. So I continue to consider one other offer.”

“Which is-?” Connal wondered with a winning and far-too-innocent smile.

“Which is best shared at a later time. Besides, I do not yet have your answer, Owen Roe O’Neill: may I indeed consider myself protected by those Wild Geese that you feel suitable for such duty?”

Owen Rowe O’Neill stood very straight. “Where the pope goes, we go. We are his men.”

Urban smiled. “Nothing could please me more. Now I will ask one more thing of you: seek out Thomas North and Lieutenant Hastings. The USE has graciously offered to lend me their contracted services.”

“A sassenach protecting a pope?” O’Neill smiled. “What is this world coming to?”

“It is coming to an urgent crossroads perched upon the edge of a yawning abyss, Colonel O’Neill. Over which I intend to build many such bridges before we all fall into it and are consumed. Now, please be so good as to tell the co-owner of the Hibernian Mercenary Battalion that their USE employers have decided to extend their current ‘special contract’ in a most uncommonly lucrative fashion.”

Still smiling, Owen nodded his respects, and went in search of the damned sassenach.

Sherrilyn leaned back and tried stretching her knee out straight; it did not cooperate. Damn it, what I’d give for a whirlpool right about now “Quatrine for your thoughts?”

She turned and smiled in the direction of Harry Lefferts’ voice. “They’d cost you a whole lot more than that, buddy.”

He sat down on the bench beside her, but she could tell he wouldn’t stay long: his body was bent forward over his knees, hands clenched between them. Obversely, when he meant to settle in, he slouched back like a cougar at repose. Feeling an awkward silence growing, she asked, “How’s Matija doing?”

“Fine. Donald’s in the sick ward with him right now.” Harry looked out beyond the hills. “At least the two of them made it.”

“Harry, listen,” said Sherrilyn. “We’re the Wrecking Crew; danger is our job description. Paul and George died doing their jobs as well as any of us ever have. And Rome is old news. What you and Miro pulled off in Mallorca-that was an extraordinary piece of work, and yes, everyone knows that most details of the close assault on Bellver came from you. You might be determined to play down your role in it, but Miro isn’t; if anything, he’s trumpeting your contributions while under-representing his own.”

Harry looked off to the side. “Yeah, well-I’m not going to get all worked up about it. The last time I basked in the spotlight I got a little bit blinded. And that got some good people killed. Some really good friends, too. I don’t need-or want-any credit for Mallorca. That was for the folks we left behind in Rome.”

Sherrilyn put a hand on shoulder. “Harry, listen to someone you trust-yourself. What you said in Venice was dead right: we had a good run, and had it as long as we could. When we first arrived down-time-when Mike Stearns recruited us-we were flying by the seat of our pants, and making up plans only seconds before carrying them out. And a good part of our success was because we were an unknown quantity; because the down-timers didn’t know all they things we could do, but more importantly, they also had no idea about all the things we couldn’t do.

“That was sure to change, Harry-and that’s what happened in Italy. The job changed, not us, not you. We had our run, and we had no way of foreseeing just how fast and hard that run was going to be over.” She rubbed her wrapped knee. “And I had no idea I was becoming an old lady.”

Harry grinned. “Well, Sherrilyn, you should know-better than anyone else-that I have a thing for older women.”

“Idiot,” Sherrilyn said with a smile.

“Ya gotta hand it to me, at least I’m consistent.”

“That you are, Harry,” she said as he stood.

“Well, I’m off.” He said brusquely-and then, his tone suddenly became serious, almost somber. “Every morning, when I wake up, I start the day by telling myself that the sacrifices we made were all worth while. We got Frank and Giovanna back, you kept the pope from getting killed, and we beat the other guys at their own sneaky games.”

“Yup,” agreed Sherrilyn, who rummaged around in her pocket and extended its contents up toward Harry: sunglasses. The weren’t exactly like his trademark pair, the ones he’d broken in two and tossed in the Tiber, but they were close down-time copies that had come with an embassy worker out of Rome.

Harry looked at them and shook his head. “No, Sherrilyn, I’m through with them. I think I’ve gotten to that stage of my life where there’s only one good reason to wear sunglasses.”

“To shade your eyes against the sun?”

Harry nodded. “Pretty dull-but when the image gets in the way of the job, it’s time to dump the image.”

Sherrilyn hoisted herself up, wavered a bit, but finally stood firm. She snapped a clean, respectful salute. “It’s been an honor serving with you, Captain; you are a hell of a soldier.”

He returned the salute. “I’m going to live up to that, Sherrilyn. And-truth be told-the honor was all mine.”