1634: The Baltic War (47 page)

"The archbishop will protest mightily, you understand."

"Oh, yes, of course. I shall naturally issue a fierce demand that he allow our forces passage through Munster. But . . ."

Don Fernando shifted his shoulders, in a very slight shrugging gesture. It was easy enough to include a phrase or two in such a stiffly worded demand that made it clear he was willing to negotiate. Archbishop Ferdinand, as one might expect from a brother of Maximilian of Bavaria, was notorious for being prickly and contentious, even toward his allies. By the time a settlement allowing passage of Spanish forces through his territory could be made, it would most likely all be over.

Manrique began to leave.

"One thing more, Miguel."

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"Have word sent across to Amsterdam, inviting Señora Abrabanel to dinner at my quarters. The night after tomorrow, let's make it."

"Rubens also, I assume?"

"Oh, yes. That Scaglia fellow who's visiting him, as well. And . . ."

He spread his hands and raised them, as if offering a sacrifice to the gods. "There's no point avoiding the matter. Not any longer. Invite Richter and her husband also."

Amsterdam

After the Spanish messenger left, Rebecca turned to the other people in the USE embassy's salon and smiled widely. "So. He's decided. I shall tell Michael tonight."

Gretchen eyed her skeptically. "We all know you're smart. Don't ruin your reputation at the last moment. What if he hasn't decided?"

Rebecca shook her head. "Oh, Gretchen, don't be silly. If he still wanted to negotiate—or simply stall for time—he certainly wouldn't have invited
you.
"

Gretchen thought about it for a few seconds. "He did once before," she pointed out.

"That was curiosity—which you satisfied. This is . . . call it a statement. A subtle one, but a statement nonetheless."

Gretchen thought about it for a few more seconds, then smiled herself. "I suppose I should take the invitation as a compliment, then."

"Oh, yes. In a manner of speaking."

"I'm still taking my shotgun," Jeff insisted stoutly.

Rebecca's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Are you kidding? Yeah, sure, it's a compliment. One of those 'my, what big teeth you have, dear' sort of compliments. Best to make sure he doesn't decide he misgauged the length of the fangs, huh?"

Rebecca sat back down on the divan, sighing. "I can remember when you were a trusting and innocent sort of person, Jeff."

He grunted. "Yeah, sure, so can I. Wasn't all that long ago, either, if you measure it in years and months."

"As opposed to what?" his wife asked.

Jeff started counting on his fingers. "Lessee. One Battle of the Crapper. Followed by—well, never mind, even if everybody knows you did it and I covered it up for you—followed by one Battle of Jena. Complete with you shooting a pimp, just for the hell of it."

"It was not 'just for the hell of it'!" Gretchen protested.

"Yeah, fine. You had your reasons, which I can sure enough find with a microscope, not that I'd accuse you of being quick on the trigger, God forbid. But we were talking about my lost innocence, remember? Brand new wife gunning down pimp goes a long ways, when it comes to removing the dew from innocent hubby's eyes. You'd be amazed how well that works. Moving right along—"

He went back to studiously counting off on his fingers. "One Croat raid. One pirate ambush in the English Channel, that you know and I know and the man in the moon knows was set up by Cardinal Richelieu. Man of God, no less. One French and English betrayal of the Dutch fleet, requiring us to scramble like mad for Amsterdam. One—"

"Stop bragging, husband," said Gretchen.

Jeff dropped his hands. "Wasn't. Just explaining how it happens that at the tender age of twenty-two I'm more suspicious than your average retired cop."

"I said, stop bragging."

London, England

"Search their quarters?" said Sir Paul Pindar. "Are you mad, Sir Francis?"

Seeing Windebank starting to bridle, Richard Boyle immediately intervened. "Please, Paul! That was uncivil."

Pindar visibly restrained his temper. By now, unfortunately, the antagonism between him and Windebank had reached the point where it was something of a constant problem for the earl of Cork. Not for the first time, he missed Endymion Porter. Although one of the youngest of Cork's party, Sir Endymion had had the knack for soothing frayed tempers.

"My apologies, Sir Francis," said Pindar. The curt manner in which he extended the apology almost vitiated it of any real content—there was certainly no sincerity in it—but the fact was enough.

"That's done, then," said Boyle. "Francis, I have to tell you that I agree with Paul, although he didn't need to be rude about it. Searching the quarters of the American embassy would be most unwise."

Windebank shifted his angry gaze from Pindar to Cork. "Richard, they've been there for
months.
I only discovered yesterday that Wentworth never had their quarters or persons searched after they arrived. Proof of treason in itself, that."

Boyle had to fight to keep his own temper down, now. He didn't actually disagree with Pindar's assessment of Windebank. The man was an arrogant ass, who'd have been insufferable except that his influence in powerful circles made suffering him a necessity. That was the reason the earl of Cork had proposed him for Constable of the Tower in the first place. It was a prestigious position, which had led Windebank to accept—and had the great benefit of keeping him out from underfoot constantly at the real center of power in Whitehall.

Not out from underfoot enough, unfortunately. Sir Francis still spent far more time in the royal palace than he did overseeing his responsibilities in the Tower. The problem with the man wasn't simply that he was arrogant, but that he was an ass. Not technically stupid, perhaps, but the distinction didn't mean much in practice. Windebank was one of those men so sure of himself that, within a week, he was convinced that his own lies were the truth—which was dangerous, under the circumstances.

Referring to Wentworth as a traitor was absurd, and everyone in Cork's party knew it. The charge had served the purpose of giving Cork an immediate pretext for having the earl of Strafford arrested and removed from power. A plausible enough one, too, at the time. But, that done, to pursue it would be folly. The last thing Richard Boyle wanted was for Parliament—and such a charge would
have
to be presented to Parliament, given the situation—to start nosing about the events of that fateful day. Fabricated evidence was risky, and there simply wasn't any evidence that wouldn't be fabricated.

Windebank, overconfident as always, was sure that the bloody escape of the three officers who'd been detained was sufficient evidence in itself. But that probably wouldn't have been true even if they'd obtained a signed confession from Leebrick. In the absence of any such document, especially with Leebrick and his men still at large, it would be risky to pursue the matter.

For that very reason, in fact, they'd all agreed a fortnight earlier to destroy the unsigned document and quietly let the search for Leebrick lapse into dormancy. By now, the three mercenary officers were surely off the island, in any event. Best to just let the whole business die a natural death—given that it was so much easier to simply charge Wentworth with having grossly violated the laws and customs of the kingdom. The man was so widely hated in England that Parliament would accept that, and cheerfully. By following that course, even if Leebrick did someday surface, what would it matter? An accusation that they had falsely accused Wentworth of treason when no such charge was formally leveled would simply be shrugged off. Who was to say what had been involved in their bloody escape? Perhaps nothing more than a quarrel with Endymion Porter that had escalated to murder—which, if need be, could be substantiated by the officers' theft of Porter's purse.

So, among themselves—and in public, of course—Cork and his party had let the word "traitor" slide out of usage in favor of the more general "tyrant." Or "usurper," at times, not with the implication that Wentworth had
actually
tried to depose the king but simply that he had taken royal prerogatives upon himself without the knowledge or consent of the king.

In short, only the ass Windebank still kept referring to Wentworth as an outright traitor.

"We have no idea what devices they might have in their possession, in St. Thomas' Tower, Richard," Sir Francis pressed on. "Weapons, munitions, signaling devices—who knows?"

Pindar started to say something, but Cork waved him down. He'd handle this himself, since Sir Paul's temper was obviously still up.

"And what if they do, Francis? They're in the
Tower
. In the middle of London. Separated by the English Channel from any aid."

"Separated by the North Sea, it would be better to say," interjected Pindar. "They'll certainly get no aid from France."

"But—"

"And on the other side of the coin," Cork continued, driving over Windebank, "we stand to lose far more if we create any further incidents with the American embassy here. I remind you of two things."

He held up his thumb. "Included in that embassy is the sister of their prime minister."

He raised his left hand, and that thumb came up. "And the war on the continent is not looking well. Let us please not forget that we didn't start this idiotic war—this highly unpopular war, which we're placing the blame for on Wentworth—and we have every desire to see it end as soon as possible."

Wentworth hadn't actually been responsible for enlisting England in the League of Ostend. That had been done before he arrived in London at the king's summons. But that fact was not generally known—and, in any event, once he did assume the post of His Majesty's chief minister Wentworth had certainly not opposed the war. Here as in many things, he made a convenient catch-all scapegoat.

"It's not the least of the reasons for our popularity in Parliament at the moment," added Pindar. "The mob will be angry enough, once they realize we have no intention of removing the mercenary companies. But many of the better sort aren't disturbed by that, because we don't carry with us any suggestive taint of being Spanish sympathizers. The populace doesn't call this the war with the United States of Europe, as you well know. They call it 'the King's Spanish War.' "

" 'Wentworth's Spanish War,' more and more," said Cork, "as our influence prevails. We need to remove the king from suspicion, of course."

Windebank's expression was sour. Boyle spread his hands in a placating gesture. "Just let it be, Francis. A few months from now, there'll be some sort of peace settlement and we'll be letting the American embassy return to the continent, in any event. It would be sheer folly to do anything that might infuriate them enough to want to continue the war against England. As it stands, beyond the fact that they were held in captivity against diplomatic custom—which is hardly unheard of, after all—they were treated perfectly well and subjected to no indignities."

"Then why not just let them go now?" demanded Sir Francis petulantly.

Cork tightened his jaws with exasperation. He was really getting tired of this fellow. "Because," he explained, his own tone now bordering on incivility, "we still need a peace settlement—and having them in the Tower will be helpful for that purpose." He felt like adding,
you ass,
but manfully restrained himself.

"So far as I can tell, they haven't spied upon us at all since we made the agreement," said Patrick Welch quietly, sipping at the broth Liz had given him. "So we can still return to our original plan, Anthony. It's not as if breaking an alliance that was forced upon us under duress is dishonorable."

It was clear enough from the Irishman's tone that he wasn't advocating a course of action; he was simply laying out all the alternatives, for his commander to choose between.

Towson made a face. "It'd certainly feel like treachery, though. I've grown rather fond of those fellows over the past few weeks."

Welch shrugged. "So have I, when you come down to it. But that's neither here nor there. We have to look to our own interests. With the money we have, there's nothing that prevents us from returning to the plan we'd adopted a month ago. The hunt's died down, quite clearly. And those reward posters pose no danger at all, the portraits are so inaccurate. We simply slip away of an evening, make our way to the coast, and sail across the channel. Three men and a woman are a bit of an unusual party, but not enough to cause any real notice. Leaving aside the fact that Harry and his men would almost certainly not launch a pursuit anyway. They've got their own business here to complete."

As he'd listened, Leebrick had kept blowing on his own broth. Judging it cool enough by now, he took a deep swallow. Then, after setting down the cup, he shook his head. "And then what, Patrick? Even that fat purse of Porter's won't last forever. We'd be three mercenary officers without a company. And none of us has ever served under French colors, so we have no friends to intercede for us. I've had quite enough of serving the Spanish throne, thank you. Between the oversupply of inquisitors and the shortage of paymasters, it's a miserable experience. That leaves the Germanies—which are now mostly controlled by the king of Sweden. True, he's hiring officers without companies for that new continental army of his, but . . ."

He let the rest trail off, with a sardonic smile.

"But that might be just a tad risky," Richard finished for him. "Given that we'd have betrayed one Captain Harry Lefferts, an officer in that very same army. God help us if we should happen to run across the man, a year or two from now."

Welch was playing devil's advocate, however, a task he did quite well. He certainly did it thoroughly. "I have the distinct impression that Harry and his unit are only used for special duties. They're officially part of the USE army, but operate for all practical purposes on their own. So we'd likely not encounter them at all."

"No, not 'on their own,' " countered Towson. "Let's be a bit more precise, Patrick. It's perfectly obvious, although Lefferts never says so in that many words, that he reports directly to their prime minister. Which, the way I look at it, makes the whole thing still worse."

Welch looked back and forth from Richard to Anthony. "I'm simply laying out the options. I don't actually disagree with you. In fact, I'd put Richard's assessment in stronger language. If we abandon Lefferts, we'd be simpletons or madmen to even think of taking employment in the Germanies. Anywhere
near
the Germanies. With Bavaria or Austria, we'd be in the service of the USE's enemies—and whatever happens with the Ostenders, I think it's a given that Gustav Adolf will keep fighting the Bavarians and the Austrians. Bad for us, should we get captured in the course of it."

"And we can't get employment in Bohemia," Anthony said, "because Wallenstein would turn us over to the Americans in an instant, if they demanded it. He's too dependent on them for his survival." He took another swallow of his broth, draining most of the cup. "That leaves service with the tsar. How splendid."

Both Welch and Towson grimaced.

"No, I think we'll continue as we have been," Leebrick concluded. "It's certainly interesting work."

"True," said Towson. But his grimace deepened. "On the other hand, I'm not sure how long I can stand that American obsession with diminutives. 'Rick' Towson, can you believe it?"

"It's better than 'Pat,' " pointed out Welch.

Leebrick smiled serenely. "I can't say I mind 'Tony' all that much. Even if Liz hates it."

"Not as much as I hate 'Lizzy,' " she said, almost hissing the name. "I had a perfectly good diminutive to begin with!"

After he finished studying the new map the team had put together of the environs of London near the Tower, Harry Lefferts shook his head.

"It's not enough, guys. Since we've decided we're not actually going to drop the bridge, we need to create another diversion."

George Sutherland planted a big finger on one spot on the map. "How about this? Easy enough to do, if we move quickly. Now that the lord chamberlain finally remembered to order the theaters to close down, in mourning for the queen."

Harry studied the spot, then ran his fingers through his hair. "I like it. Damned if I don't. Gerd, you and George put something together along the lines of what you made up for the pirate ship. Set it up with remote-controlled detonators."

Gerd frowned. "We don't have many of them left, Harry."

"So? What else are we going to use them for?"

"Well . . . all right. Setting them up won't be hard, that's for sure. Not there."

"They're
certain
?" Melissa demanded.

Darryl nodded. "Yeah, they're sure there's not going to be any search. Our beloved constable must have gotten slapped down by Cork. Andrew says Sir Francis was in the foulest mood he's ever seen him—and he's usually in a foul mood." He grinned. "It gets better. Windebank was so pissed off he told the Warders that they'd have complete responsibility for us, from now on. They're even pulling the mercenaries off guard duty along the outer wall, from Bell Tower to Develin Tower."

Rita Simpson burst into laughter. "Talk about putting the foxes in charge of the henhouse!"

Her husband chuckled. "Well, that's a break."

Melissa didn't even try to disguise the relief on her face. Her great fear, ever since the new regime took over, had been that they'd carry out a search of St. Thomas' Tower. With the Hamilton and Short family as their allies, the Americans had been able to smuggle all their ordnance over to the Warders' quarters, so at least they didn't have to worry about a search uncovering their weaponry. But there'd been no way to move the radio and the communication equipment. It was one thing for Warders to learn how to use shotguns and automatic pistols. Another matter entirely for them to have learned how to use the far more complex radio—and even if they had learned quickly enough, it wouldn't have served the purpose anyway. Melissa needed to stay in touch with Amsterdam, not just the commando unit across the river. That required using the elaborate antenna. The antenna could be placed in a window of St. Thomas' Tower at night, without being spotted, since the window faced directly onto the Thames. But there was nowhere suitable in the Warders' quarters. Certainly not since most of the Lieutenant's Lodging had been taken over by Windebank's mercenaries.