1635: A Parcel of Rogues - eARC (19 page)
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Authors: Eric Flint,Andrew Dennis
Tags: #Fiction, #Alternative History, #Science Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General
Lennox chuckled. “Ye dinnae dream small, m’chief. No’ small at all. But why me? I’ve duties at the new Marine training establishment.”
“Aye, well, if you’re minded to take this wee task on, Admiral Simpson’s minded to free ye for it. He and I, well, we talked of it. Man’s a fine head on him, so he has. And it was him put me in mind of ye. A man that’ll do his duty—no matter he’s doin’ it t’ the benefit o’ his religious enemy—that’s a man ye can trust t’ do right. And it’s a mission o’ great trust ye’ll have. We’ve no’ t’ raise the heads o’ the Stuart’s men wi’ envoys an’ ambassadors traipsin’ all over the place. An honest soldier, home from the wars, visitin’ hither an’ yon wi’ news o’ menfolk fallen or fighting still in Germany? No matter t’ any man save himself. And all the while ye’re our wee de’il, going up and down in the world.”
Reay’s smile had turned mischievous. “And if ye can see some good t’ do for the cause, ye’ve a fair hand for such, I hear?”
“Ye mean the slittin’ o’ throats?”
“I mean more the savin’ o’ lives, the turnin’ up where ye’re needed and no’ looked for. Cardinal Mazzare had high praise for ye in that regard, Major. I mean t’ do this wi’ as few throats slit as we may manage, and those only after we measure it all ways. I want Scotland no’ showing her weakness t’ the world, and yon admiral advises me not t’ have every man wi’ an eye o’er his shoulder for the knife. I see the sense of it, soldier that I am.”
“Aye. Ye’ll have more precise instructions afore I go, aye? I’ve been tel’t tae go save the bloody world and no more order than that the once, and I didnae care for it.”
“Oh, aye, we’ll have plenty o’ mission for ye, if ye’re agreed?”
“Aye, it’s a good cause. And I’ll make my first call on young Alex, wi’ your permission, Chief. Does his father live, that’s a man tae have words with, I’ll say.”
“Aye. And, the noo, we’ve made a start on this bottle?”
“Aye, just as your lordship said,” Lennox said, thrusting out his glass in best military manner, “It’d be sinful to leave it spoil now it’s opened.”
Chapter 21
Canongate, Scotland
Gayle looked around the room. The process didn’t take long, given that the room was small, perhaps twelve feet by seven feet; and had only five items of furniture in it:
A short bed a little wider—but not much—than what Americans would consider a twin bed;
A table somewhere in size between a nightstand and a writing desk;
A chair for said desk that looked to be sturdily built but was lower than an up-time chair would be;
A candle stand on the table;
And, tucked discreetly under the bed, a chamber pot.
There was no bedding of any kind. Mrs. Crawford, the widow who owned the boarding house, had offered to provide some, but Gayle had politely declined the offer. First, because she was asking too much. Secondly and more importantly, because boardinghouse bedding was notorious for harboring bedbugs. In the course of their travels since escaping from the Tower, Gayle had acquired her own bedding which was rolled up in one of the bags Oliver and she had hauled up to the room. It wasn’t much and couldn’t be much, given their constant moving about over the past months. But now that they’d arrived somewhere they were planning to stay for a while, she’d find something more substantial. Fortunately, summer in Edinburgh—Canongate, technically—was fairly warm despite the high latitude.
The room had one window on the wall opposite the bed, that was bigger than most such windows but still very small. It consisted of six panes of glass, none of which were either clear or undistorted. Still, it let some light in the room, although Gayle had her doubts how much light would be coming in once the sun passed over the roof of the house and they got into the afternoon. But at least their mornings wouldn’t be too somber.
Speaking of somber…
She turned to face the other occupant in the room. Oliver Cromwell was looking here, there and anywhere except in her direction. He had that passive, stoical expression on his face that was Oliver’s way of dealing with the world when he wasn’t sure of himself. It was all she could do not to burst into laughter.
But that wouldn’t be fair to the man. Oliver could be awkward at times, but she never doubted that his intentions were good.
Honorable,
as they were wont to say in the here and now.
“We’re past that, Oliver,” she said quietly. Then, pointing at the bed: “Why don’t you sit down?”
He gave the chair a quick glance.
“Here,” Gayle said, still pointing at the bed.
Cromwell hesitated a moment and then, rather gingerly, sat on the bed. Perched on the bed, it might be better to say. He didn’t have more than a few inches of it under him and looked as if he was ready to spring back onto his feet at a moment’s notice.
Again, she restrained a laugh. Then, after a moment’s thought, let a soft, chuckling version of it come out.
“Will you
relax,
Oliver? We both agreed we had to pose as a married couple when we went looking for lodgings.”
Having a single man and—especially—a single woman who traveled together but rented separate rooms would be sure to get tongues wagging. Not to mention that their finances were tight because of Cromwell’s stubborn refusal to accept any money that might have derived from the coffers of the USE. Especially since she’d have to fudge the truth a bit.
She
had no qualms about accepting the USE’s money, seeing as how
she
was a citizen of said foreign nation.
Granted, she handled that matter delicately, knowing how Oliver felt about it. While no tainted foreign silver might cross her palms, she let Darryl pay for all sorts of things that she and Oliver took advantage of. One of the things Harry Lefferts had brought to the Tower had been a fair amount of money which he gave those people who were planning to stay in Britain.
But—not directly. Which meant whatever lodgings she and Oliver found for themselves had to be paid for out of their none-too-full purse, which only escaped being completely empty because Gayle had borrowed money from Julie and Alex. To be repaid…
Whenever.
She sat down on the bed next to him. Closely next to him, their thighs touching. She half-expected Oliver to sidle away from her, but, to his credit, he didn’t. The expression on his face got even more stoical, though.
Then, more stoical still, when she slid her arm around his waist.
“I can sleep on the floor,” he said stiffly.
“Yes, you can. No, you won’t. Oliver, look at me.”
He turned his head toward her.
“I am willing to accommodate you in many ways,” she said. “For starters, if you wish me to I will convert from my own church to yours.” She shrugged. “I’m a Christian, and a Protestant, but I don’t care that much about the ins-and-outs of doctrine.”
“There’s no need for that, Gayle. I am what we English call independent, which means we favor local congregational control of church affairs—much as your own church does, as I understand it. I don’t much care for sectarian issues either.”
He slid his own arm around her waist. “I do thank you for the offer, though.” Then, smiling: “Yet I sense there was a ‘but’ coming at the end of that offer.”
She smiled back. “Yes, there was—is. You will have to be willing to accommodate me in some matters.” With her free hand, she patted the bed. “This is one of them. I am thirty-six years old—a year older than you are. I’ve been married and divorced.”
She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know already, but felt the need to dot all necessary i’s and cross all relevant t’s. “To put it as bluntly as I can, my virginity is long gone and I can’t say I miss it at all. I have fallen in love with you and I wish to pursue that as far as I can. But I’m a practical sort of girl and for today that means I want to make love. Tomorrow can take care of itself for the time being. If you want to get married, the answer is ‘yes.’ If you don’t, for the time being, the answer is still ‘yes.’ I’m tired of dancing around.”
He looked at her for a few seconds, his expression very serious, almost solemn. Then, he smiled, and the smile kept spreading. “I am quite willing to accommodate you in this matter, as I’m sure I will in many others.”
* * *
The rest of the day passed with much in the way of accommodation. Gayle had been told by Melissa Mailey that the reputation Puritans had in American history of being sour, fun-hating prudes who were especially uptight about sex was all nonsense. Gayle had believed her, since one doubted Melissa Mailey’s pronouncements on historical matters at one’s own risk.
Still, it was nice to discover that the information she’d been given was accurate. Very accurate, in fact.
The only awkward moment came after they’d already made love twice. Rather diffidently, Oliver raised the issue of child-bearing. He began by making clear that he would of course assume all his fatherly responsibilities—indeed, he looked ready to enumerate those at great length—but did express concern over how the arrival of a new infant might create difficulties given his political intentions.
Gayle cut him off in mid-assurance. “Relax, will you? I have an IUD, which by good fortune I had implanted just two years before the Ring of Fire. And it’s one of the copper types which means it’ll last for several more years. By which time we’ll either be successful or dead or in prison or back on the Continent, any one of which eventualities will make having kids either a moot point or no big deal.”
Silence followed, for a moment. Then Gayle explained the nature of an IUD, concluding with: “Mind you, there were some pro-life people who thought the IUD was no better than abortion. I thought they were idiots. This is one of those areas where you’ll have to accommodate me.”
Oliver pursed his lips, and looked at the ceiling. “I have no opinion on the matter one way or the other. So I will gladly defer to your wisdom.”
“Such a smart man.”
* * *
Vicky Short came by in mid-afternoon, which required a hasty termination of those activities which Gayle and Oliver would henceforth and forever more refer to as “mutual accommodation.”
They did their best to straighten up the room and look as if they’d spent the previous hours discussing theology. Vicky was not fooled one bit. Her own virginity was also gone, albeit not long gone, and she didn’t miss it any more than Gayle did.
But she said nothing. Until she got back to the room on the top floor she was sharing with Darryl.
Her command of American idiom was by now pretty much complete. “Gayle and Oliver just spent the day finally getting laid,” she announced cheerily.
Darryl stared at her. “Are you sure?” he blurted out—and then immediately regretted it. The look Vicky was giving him was not one of admiration.
“Yeah, sure, of course you’re sure. Stupid of me to ask.”
He got up from their bed, where he’d been not quite taking a nap but doing a good imitation of it. Then, once on his feet, went over to the window in their own room.
It was also small, albeit not as small. It had eight panes instead of six, and two of them—would wonders never cease?—were pretty close to transparent and provided an almost undistorted view of the boarding house’s tiny back yard.
Darryl tried to figure out how he felt about the new development.
“Does
everything
make you fret over the fate of Ireland?” Vicky demanded, mostly amused but a bit irritated. “Can’t you just feel good for them?”
He
did
feel good for them, he realized. Then he tried to figure out how he felt about the fact that he felt good.
“You’re hopeless,” Vicky pronounced. “And ridiculous.”
“Hey, look, I’m Irish,” he said. By way of hopeless and ridiculous explanation.
Chapter 22
Government House
Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe
“Have a seat,” said Mike Stearns, gesturing toward the large couch in what the prime minister of the USE liked to call his “chat room.” He’d found that for some purposes—and he judged this to be one of them—having a conversation in a more intimate setting had better results than meeting people in his office. All the more so since he’d had his office decorated with portraits which, whatever their justification in political terms, would be viewed askance by his two current visitors.
Mike McCarthy and Mike McCarthy, Jr. had known Mike Stearns since he was born. The elder McCarthy had been a coal miner who’d retired just before the Ring of Fire and had then volunteered to come back to work to help get the town’s coal mine up and running again. Born in 1935, he was old enough to remember once-obsolete ways of mining coal which were getting a new lease on life under the changed conditions.
He’d voted for Mike Stearns when he ran for president of their local United Mineworkers union. And while Mike hadn’t had as much contact with McCarthy, Jr., he wasn’t that much different from his father. Neither McCarthy was likely to consider a portrait depicting Mike as a seventeenth-century courtier attending on his monarch with a sword belted to his waist as anything other than ridiculous.
No, better to meet with them in the chat room, which had landscapes on the walls rather than portraits and whose couch and armchairs were down-time replicas of up-time furniture. They were more comfortable than the chairs in his office, even leaving aside the one whose front legs were cut slightly shorter so as to make sitting in it something of a strain. Mike had that one brought out whenever he had to entertain a guest he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible.
The two McCarthys looked at the couch he’d indicated, and then at the two men already in the room. One of them was sitting in one of the armchairs; the other was watering down a glass of wine at a side table. Both of them were wearing clothing which, though not precisely uniforms, clearly marked them as professional soldiers. Officers, judging from the quality of the fabric.
“This is something of a private matter, Mike,” said the younger McCarthy.
“Yeah, I figured as much. But if the subject’s what I think it is, you’ll want both of these fellows to sit in.” Stearns nodded toward the man sitting in the armchair. “He’s Anthony Leebrick, formerly a captain in the English army. The Irish fellow making himself a drink is Patrick Welch, also a former officer in the English army. I might mention that since their escape from England—they were falsely accused of plotting to assassinate King Charles—they’ve both accepted commissions in the army of the United States of Europe.”
“Oh.” The two McCarthys glanced at each other. The elder of them cleared his throat. “So you would have met Darryl McCarthy, who’s my son”—he hooked a thumb at McCarthy, Jr.—“and his half-brother. And the—ah—”
“Other guy,” furnished McCarthy, Jr.
Patrick Welch smiled. “Cromwell, you mean.”
“Yeah. Him.”
Welch held up his glass. “Would you care for one? Or perhaps something stronger?”
“I’ve got whiskey,” Stearns said. “I’m afraid none of it’s Irish, though. I drank my last bottle of Jameson’s a couple of years ago.”
The older of the McCarthys headed for the side table. “A shot of whiskey’d probably do me good. Under the circumstances. You want one, son?”
“No, thanks,” said the younger McCarthy. He sat down on the couch and looked at Welch. “Irish, are you?”
“Indeed.” There followed a stream of words in what Stearns presumed to be Gaelic.
McCarthy looked discomfited. “Sorry, I don’t know more than a few words in your—our—language, and I didn’t really catch much of that.”
Having poured himself a half-glass of whiskey, his father turned away from the side table. “What he said—I think—is that he was born and raised in Leinster near Dublin, but has lived most of his life outside of Ireland.”
As he lowered himself onto the couch next to his son, he gave Welch an apologetic look. “Sorry. Your accent’s not what I’m accustomed to when it comes to Gaelic.”
Leebrick spoke, for the first time since they’d entered the room. “In answer to your question, we spent quite a bit of time in the company of your son Darryl and Oliver Cromwell in the course of our escape from the island. About two months. We parted company at Newcastle. We sailed to the Continent, bringing Cromwell’s children with us, and your son and the rest of the party went on to Edinburgh. I presume they’re still there although I can’t say for sure.”
McCarthy Senior took a deep breath. “Oliver Cromwell’s kids. In Grantville, now, staying with the Masons. We heard.”
The tone of his voice added the commentary,
what the hell is the world coming to?
Mike Stearns had to struggle not to laugh out loud. He couldn’t keep from grinning, though.
Seeing the expression on his face, the elder McCarthy scowled. “Dammit, Mike, it’s not funny. For Pete’s sake, we’re talking about
Oliver Cromwell.
”
“Actually, we were talking about Cromwell’s kids. The oldest of whom—his name’s Robert, by the way—is fourteen. The youngest kid’s name is Henry. He’s five.”
His voice lost all traces of humor. “You want us to string ’em up, or will you settle for having them tossed in jail?”
“Dammit, Mike…”
“Dammit,
what
?” Stearns gave McCarthy a look that fell just short of being a glare. “Let’s cut to the chase. I assume the reason you wanted this get-together is because you’re twitchy as all hell over your son hanging out with—how’s Cromwell reckoned by you folks? Ireland’s worst devil? Second worst?”
McCarthy Jr. smiled, a bit crookedly. “It depends who you talk to. Me, I never figured Cromwell ranked higher than third worst devil. Which is still way up there.”
“You have to do something about it, Mike,” said the senior McCarthy.
“And just what do you propose I do? I have no contact with any of the people in Scotland except intermittently by radio. And while you could make a case that Darryl is under my authority, since he’s still officially being paid as a soldier even if he hasn’t collected that pay for a year or so, I have no authority over Cromwell whatsoever.”
He ran fingers through his hair in a gesture that mirrored the exasperation in his expression and his tone of voice. “Assume for the moment that I gave Darryl the order to break off all contact with Cromwell, and assume that Darryl obeyed the order. Is that really what you want?”
By now, Welch had taken a seat in an armchair. “I liked the fellow,” he said. “Cromwell, I mean. For whatever this Irishman’s opinion is worth.”
“So did I,” said Leebrick. “Granted, I’m English myself.”
The older McCarthy now scowled at Leebrick and Welch. Who, for their part, bore up under the burden quite well. Leebrick shrugged. Welch satisfied himself with draining half his glass of watered-down wine.
Getting no satisfaction there, McCarthy transferred the scowl to Mike Stearns. Who scowled right back at him.
“Grow up,” he said. “Unless he gets killed, Oliver Cromwell is a political fact of life. Keep in mind, though, that the Cromwell we’re dealing with is a man in his mid-thirties, not the man in another universe who led the invasion of Ireland in his fifties. A man in his mid-thirties, moreover, who’s probably going to marry an American woman and one of whose close associates is an American of Irish descent. Unless you’ve abandoned Catholicism and taken up with Calvinists, you don’t hold with predestination.”
He glanced at the younger McCarthy, who held up both hands in a gesture signifying
hey, don’t look at me.
As Mike Stearns had suspected, this was mostly the older McCarthy’s doing. Everybody in the McCarthy clan was an Irish nationalist, but only the patriarch was really obsessed with the issue.
He looked back at the father. “Mike, you have no idea where Cromwell’s going to wind up, or what he’ll wind up doing, in this universe. So like I said, grow up. If Darryl’s got enough sense to realize he’d do better to try to shape Cromwell, why can’t you? Who are supposed to be the older and wiser head, not that you’re displaying any evidence of it at the moment.”
There was silence in the room for about thirty seconds. Then the older McCarthy got to his feet. “I guess you’re right. Not that I like it any. Thanks for giving us some of your time. I know you’re busy.” His son rose also, but didn’t say anything.
After they left, Mike turned toward the two British officers. “And what do you think?”
Welch shrugged. “I’m not one of the godly, and I’ve never thought predestination made a lot of sense. But I doubt if any Calvinist in the world, except the most doctrinaire, is all that sure about predestination any longer. In their hearts, whatever they may say in public. The Ring of Fire pretty well knocked that apple cart over, I’d say.”
Leebrick chuckled. “Like all Irishmen, he’s ever the optimist. I am quite sure the world is still full of Calvinists who are certain that whatever is to be is foreordained. But I don’t think Oliver Cromwell is in their number any longer, if he ever was. Or at least—he’s a very smart man, don’t think he isn’t—he figures that God’s plans aren’t fathomable by men, including the divines.”
“
Especially
the divines,” said Welch.
* * *
After they returned to Grantville, the two McCarthys began the long walk from the train station to their house, which was located some distance outside the limits of Grantville—although not as much of a distance as it had been before the Ring of Fire. The town had grown a lot over the last three years.
When they reached one of the last intersections before passing into the countryside, McCarthy Senior stopped abruptly.
“Tired, Dad?” asked his son. “We can rest a bit.”
The elder McCarthy didn’t seem to hear him. He was peering down the street they’d reached.
After a moment, his son understood the meaning of that intent gaze.
“I’m not sure…”
“C’mon, let’s go. I need to—I don’t know. See it, I guess.”
He began walking down the street, heading toward a green and white house some distance away. As they approached, they could hear the squealing sounds of young children playing in the back yard.
“Dad…” said Mike, Jr., sounding very uncertain.
The front door of the house opened and a woman came out. She looked to be in her late thirties or early forties and had a very determined expression on her face. She came down the steps to the house and strode over to the low gate leading into the front yard. By then, the two McCarthys were within ten feet of her.
“Is there going to be a problem?” she asked.
Mike Junior shook his head. “No, Vickie. We—ah—my dad…”
Vickie Mason looked at the elder of the pair. “For Christ’s sake, Mike, they’re just kids. I already checked ’em to see if there were any horns, hooves or tails. Didn’t find a one.”
Mike Senior grimaced. “Yeah, sure.” He looked around, as if searching for something unseen. Then, sighed.
“I guess we’ll be going.” He started to turn away.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Vickie. “You don’t get off that easy.” She unlatched the gate and swung it wide open. “Come on in. I’ll introduce you to the three youngest. The older boys—that’d be Robert and Oliver—are off with Arnold.”
McCarthy hesitated.
“Come. In,” Vickie commanded.
* * *
“This is Elizabeth. This is Bridget. And that’s Henry.”
Elizabeth was half-hiding behind her brother Henry, who, for his part, was half-hiding behind his older sister Bridget. None of the three Mason children were present. The youngest of them, Heather, was sixteen and presumably at school today. Neither her brother Derrick nor her sister Kelsey seemed to be around either.
The girl named Bridget was less shy than her two younger siblings. She advanced toward the McCarthys and stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said. “I’m Bridget Cromwell. I’m eleven years old.”
Mike Senior leaned over and solemnly shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Michael McCarthy, Senior. I’m sixty-nine.” He nodded to his left. “This is my son Mike McCarthy Junior. He’s forty-five.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Are you related to Darryl McCarthy?”
“My son,” said Mike Senior. He hooked a thumb at his son. “He’s his half-brother.”
Bridget clapped her hands. “Oh, how delightful! I
like
Darryl. He’s funny and he was always nice to us.”
“Never thought I’d see the day when Darryl was the most levelheaded McCarthy around,” muttered Vickie Mason, just loud enough for the two Mikes to hear her. “Goes to show we do live in an age of miracles.”
Then, more loudly: “Anything else, gentlemen?”
Mike Junior shook his head. “No, no. We were just leaving. Nice meeting you, Bridget.”
* * *
Once they were a couple of blocks away, Mike Senior said: “I feel like a damned idiot.”
His son smiled wryly. “Well, sure, Dad. We’re Irish. We just have to hope Darryl knows what he’s doing.”
A block later, Mike Senior said: “You do realize how crazy that sounds?”