Birgit's mother had warned her not to take any food or drink from boys, not to answer any of their questions, and, most especially, not to smile at them. Birgit had dutifully agreed. Unfortunately, she broke all three rules the same day.
Birgit and her friends Anna and Barbel had gone to Halberstadt to enjoy a festival. They walked arm in arm across the town square, the Domplatz, and were surprised to find several of their fellow villagers clustered around a young foreigner. He was regaling them with tales of the fabulous New World. Strange beasts. Indians. He even had drawings to show them. Drawings he had made himself.
Birgit and her companions hovered on the edge of the crowd. Suddenly, the storyteller gestured in her direction. "Now, that beautiful lass would amaze the natives. They would say that her hair was like a river, lit by the morning sun." Birgit smiled involuntarily. Then she collected herself and started to pull away. Her girlfriends pulled her right back.
"Say something to him," Anna whispered furiously.
"But he's a man!"
"That's the point, you idiot."
Birgit blushed. "Um—can you draw me?"
"Draw us all," said Barbel.
"All of you? It will endanger my health and sanity, to study so much beauty all at once. But I will attempt it." The young man took out a piece of chalk and drew rapidly in his sketchbook. "What do you think of this?"
The artist had drawn them as if they were wearing elegant gowns, and were standing on a cloud, looking down at a shepherd who looked like him.
Birgit puzzled over the scene. "It doesn't seem to be a story from the Bible."
"No, it isn't. It is the judgment of Paris. The Greek goddesses Aphrodite, Hera and Athena appeared before Paris, the Prince of Troy, and asked him to choose who would be awarded a golden apple, inscribed, 'to the fairest.'"
Barbel fluttered her eyelashes. "So which of us would you choose?"
"Hmm . . . In the myth, Paris didn't even try to judge the goddesses' beauty, he just picked the one who offered him the best bribe."
Barbel giggled. "And what sort of bribe would you like?"
Birgit carefully stepped on Barbel's toe. "Would you like to share my apple?" she asked.
"I would be delighted."
Anna spoke up. "Come, Barbel, I think Max is on the other side of the square, let's go say hello."
"I am fine right here. Or I would be, if my toe weren't hurting."
"I think your toe will hurt even more if you stay. Come. Now." She turned to Birgit. "Call us if you need us."
Birgit took a bite out of her apple, and then handed it to the stranger. "I am Birgit. Birgit Wegener. I am the eldest daughter of the smith in Stroebeck.
He took a bite, too, and smacked his lips. "I am Felix Gruenfeld. My father is—was—a book printer and bookseller; he is . . . retired . . . now. I am a member of the Guild of Saint Luke's in Amsterdam. The artists' guild, that is. I was returning to that city when I discovered that it was under siege. I decided to flee to Germany."
"It is hard for me to think of Germany as a place of refuge, especially after the sack of Magdeburg," said Birgit.
"I understand, but you have the Lion of the North to defend you now. And Amsterdam has been in sorry straits since the English and French betrayed the Dutch at the Battle of Dunkirk."
Felix reached for the drinking horn at his side. "May I offer you something to drink? I am sorry, it is just small beer." Birgit took a sip, and he did the same. He scrounged up some cheese for them to share, too.
They chatted for a while. Birgit grew more and more interested in this man, so different from the others she knew. She was disappointed when he said, "Unfortunately, I need to take my leave of you. I must try to sell a few pictures in the market this afternoon. Once the festival is over, the local guild will be very hostile to any outsider trying to sell paintings in this town."
"Of course, I understand. Have you sold any pictures so far?"
"I have not been doing as well as I expected. The landscapes and natural studies which were snapped up by the burghers back home don't seem to satisfy Germanic tastes."
Birgit waved the picture of her and her friends at him. "Your sketch was very good. Perhaps you should be trying to sell portrait miniatures, instead."
Felix had a pained expression. "It is my desire to use my art to convey the reality of nature, which is God's creation. To depict the sweep of great mountains, and the delicate colors of a butterfly's wing. And to express these both beautifully and accurately. To paint portraits is to trivialize my skills."
Birgit had noticed that Felix wore clothes which, while made of a good material, had been carefully patched. She was also a practical girl. "I apologize, good sir. I had not realized that you were independently wealthy, and hence could paint and draw without catering to popular tastes."
Felix held up his hands. "Touché!" He paused. "Still, I can't very well paint portraits in advance, in the hopes that the sitter's father or spouse will show up at the marketplace. Portraits must be commissioned. So on one visit I look for prospects, and on the next, I deliver the portrait and get paid. Right now, I need works which will appeal to many people, and might be sold then and there."
"You could always paint scenes from the Bible."
"There is that. Although they are difficult to sell in some towns."
"But surely an artist of your caliber can overcome the problem. You could leave out the saints' halos, for example."
Felix nodded thoughtfully. "I thank you for your advice. I will think on it." Waving goodbye to Birgit, Felix said, "I think that at the hour of vespers, I will go pray inside the Church of Saint Martin."
"That is very pious of you," said Birgit. "I am very pious myself."
* * *
Felix and Birgit's courtship progressed from there, albeit in fits and starts. Birgit could not go to Halberstadt often without arousing parental suspicions. For that matter, Halberstadt, with only ten thousand inhabitants, was not the best place for Felix to sell paintings. Still, they found opportunities to meet, even though it took some effort.
Felix's story began to come out. There were many painters in the Netherlands, and hence it was important to have a specialty in which you were the acknowledged expert. After achieving mastery, Felix had decided to make himself the expert on the New World, and had wangled a position in the entourage of the Governor of New Amsterdam. He painted portraits, made maps, and so forth.
Felix returned to the Netherlands, only to find that his mother and elder brother had died of some potent disease, and that his father had abandoned himself to drinking and gambling. His life savings, which could have gone to setting himself up in his own shop, as an independent master, went instead to paying his father's debts. Felix had to make do by inking in landscape backgrounds for the portraits of others. Boring work. Felix admitted to Birgit that this might explain some of his antipathy for portraiture. Except when the subject was her, of course.
Besides his artistic activities, Felix also collected "curiosities"—plants, minerals and so forth which might interest a collector. In the Netherlands, the interest in these wonders was not limited to the nobility; many wealthy merchants had Wunderkaemmer. Felix' curiosities could be sold, or given, to a prospective patron.
It was while Felix was away from home, on a collecting trip, that the next disaster occurred. It was a turn for the worse in the long war with the Spanish Hapsburgs. They destroyed the Dutch fleet, seized Haarlem, and laid siege to Amsterdam. It was clearly not the best time to try selling nature art in the Netherlands. Or art of any kind, for that matter. Except perhaps Catholic altarpieces.
Since Felix was of German descent, he decided to try his luck in the Germanies. Unfortunately, most of his stock and materials were in Amsterdam, on the other side of the siege line.
* * *
"Do you play chess?" Birgit asked.
"No, I don't. Didn't you ask me that before?" Felix took a closer look at her. They were in a dark corner of the cathedral in Halberstadt, but now that his eyes were better adjusted to the gloom, he could see that she was upset. "Hey, what's wrong?"
"One of my friends was indiscreet."
"Let me guess. Barbel."
"Yes. She said something about us . . . didn't realize her mother was nearby. And her mother makes Barbel seem like a Trappist monk."
"Big talker?"
"Yes. It is only a matter of time before my father finds out. Days at most."
"So perhaps I should make a preemptive strike. Tell him that we are engaged to be married. I can say that, right?" He grinned at her. She smiled for an instant, then looked grim.
"It is more complicated than that. I have put off telling you about the peculiar courtship and marriage customs of Strobeck. If your art were selling well again, they wouldn't matter so much. But under the present circumstances—I am worried."
Felix was puzzled. "Just what are these customs?"
"Let's say that you need to learn to play chess. Right now."
* * *
"Checkmate!"
Felix Gruenfeld studied the board glumly. This was no friendly chess game. He was in the Saxon village of Stroebeck, where commoners had played chess for six centuries. In Stroebeck, the game of chess was an intimate part of the game of life.
Felix quietly tipped over his king, conceding the game. His opponent, Hans Wegener, smirked.
The mayor of Stroebeck cleared his throat. "Felix Gruenfeld, you have asked for the hand of Birgit, daughter of Hans Wegener. Under the laws and customs of Stroebeck, in order to proceed with the marriage, in spite of the opposition of Hans Wegener, you had to either defeat him at chess or pay a forfeit of twenty gulden to the village treasury. Since you have lost the game, you must either pay, or leave." Birgit was fighting back tears.
"I just don't have that kind of money right now."
"We don't need vagrants like you in Stroebeck," Hans snarled.
The Mayor was more tactful. "I am sorry."
Felix looked despairingly at Birgit. She blurted out, "You can try again in six months!"
"Hah!" said Wegener. "You are hopelessly inept. Six months or six years, you still aren't going to win against me without tutoring from a master. And how would you gain such training? If you can't pay the penalty, you can hardly pay for chess lessons. For that matter, outside of Stroebeck, chess is strictly a nobleman's game, and you can hardly expect a nobleman to agree to teach you. If one took pity on you, and gave you a few lessons, they won't make you the equal of someone who has played every day for three dozen years."
Felix looked at him stonily. "That may be, but I will be back in six months, and if I must, six months after that."
He bowed to Birgit and left the room.
* * *
Felix had realized that his chances of winning the game were not good. After his defeat, he had gone, as he and Birgit had planned, to the nearby city of Halberstadt. There, Birgit's brother, Karl, met him.
At one point, Felix had been a bit nervous about how Karl would regard the whole affair. Felix feared that Karl might be inclined to protect his little sister from undesirable suitors, and Karl was a journeyman smith. Swing a hammer all day, for years on end, and you are quite capable of flooring a mere artist. Even one who has roughed it in the New World.
However, Karl had reached that stage of life in which the son knows much more than the father. Hans' heated opposition to Felix had made Felix prime brother-in-law material, so far as Karl was concerned.
"Here, Birgit gave me these for you. This is for your stomach,"—he handed over a loaf of bread—"and this is for your heart." The second present was a small leather pouch, which contained a lock of blonde hair. Felix quickly hung it around his neck, and concealed it under his blouse.
"Where are you going next?" Karl asked.
"I hear that Gustavus Adolphus is in Magdeburg. Perhaps he has need of an artist? Or at least of a draftsman? My status would be much enhanced if I had a royal patron.
"If the Swede is off with his armies, I will try my luck at that Grantville we keep hearing about.
"Once I am settled, I will send word here. Check for messages at that tavern you are so fond of, The Roasted Pig. Now give me a moment to write a note for you to carry back to your sister."
* * *
Birgit was, indeed, a practical girl. This first became evident to her family, years before, when her mother was sick for a few weeks. Birgit went to the market, and did the shopping. And, of course, the obligatory haggling. She was a natural. After her mother recovered, it was decided to let Birgit continue in that role. She was so good that she impressed the pros. One merchant said he would have hired her on the spot, if she were a boy.
The family was less accepting when she started making suggestions as to things that her father could make in the smithy. That is to say, her father was less accepting. More to annoy him, than because of his faith in Birgit's business acumen, Karl made a few of the simpler items as journeyman projects. And was pleasantly amazed when they sold, sold very well indeed.
It was not prudent to remind her father about it, however.
Given her mental makeup, it was not surprising that, being a practical girl, Birgit turned to the question of how to improve the financial situation, not to mention the marital prospects, of a certain talented but slightly impractical artist-cum-curiosity collector.
Birgit was at her friend Anna's home. "I need to write a letter," she said.
"To Felix?" Anna mouthed. Birgit nodded. Anna quietly brought her paper, a quill pen, and an ink bottle.
"Dearest Felix," she began. "I know you are my steadfast knight. Do not despair. I am confident that you will sell your art, that you will find a great patron, and, most important of all, that we will be united.
"I was thinking about how you might more profitably practice your skills. Did you not tell me that you can make copper engravings and woodcuts? A print can be sold more cheaply than a water color. The profit on each print is small, but those profits will add up.
"Moreover, you have told me that your father was a bookseller. Do you not know the names of your father's colleagues in other towns? Can you engage them to sell your prints for a percentage of the profits? Please think upon this."
She added a few felicities, sealed the letter, and handed it to Anna. "Can you have Max take this to The Roasted Pig, in Halberstadt? Father is watching me too closely for me to dare take it there myself. And Karl can't go this week."
* * *
A bleary-eyed Felix stumbled through the door of the Inn of the Maddened Queen.
The town of Grantville was wondrous, all right . . . wondrously confusing. There was no town square, and there was no telling which shops might be on a particular street. The residents spoke English, but with terrible accents. His attempts to locate the local Guild of Saint Luke's had been greeted with polite incomprehension.
He had stayed, at first, at a large dormitory. He didn't like the looks of some of the other guests and decided to find alternative accommodations. One of the citizens of Grantville had directed him to Clarksburg Street, and the Inn of the Maddened Queen. He hurried in; it was raining heavily.
Felix went to the desk and inquired as to the cost of lodging. He winced when he heard the number, it was way out of his league.
Felix decided that he would at least get something hot to drink before he went out into the night. Perhaps he would have some of this coffee he had heard about. There was a menu board on one wall, and the price of a cup of coffee, at least, seemed reasonable.
The painter winced when he came upon a table at which two men were playing a game of chess. He tried to find seating as far away as possible. No luck. In fact, by the time he finished his circumnavigation of the premises, the only open seat was at an adjacent table. He grimaced, and turned his chair so that his back was to the players.
"I guess you don't like chess," said the fellow facing him. He was a stocky man, with very bushy eyebrows.
"It evokes rather unpleasant memories."
"Oh?"
"I was in the Harz Mountains, and stopped in Halberstadt. It is a small city, perhaps thirty miles southwest of Magdeburg. There was a festival going on and, well, I met this girl. A real beauty, and clever, too. We saw more and more of each other, on the sly, but we weren't sly enough, I'm afraid. Her father found out.
"He said that he would refuse his consent, and she said that she wanted to have it, but didn't need his consent."
"Is that true?" Bushy Eyebrows was clearly doubtful.
"Her town, Stroebeck, is in the bishopric of Halberstadt, which is ruled directly by the Catholic Prince-Bishop Leopold Wilhelm von Hapsburg. So it strictly follows the canon law as proclaimed by the Council of Trent. That said that marriage does not require parental consent, and that it is anathema to assert otherwise."
"But even if that is so, cannot her father refuse to pay a dowry? Can he not disinherit her?"
"Oh, yes, and he threatened to do those things. And she avowed that she would marry me nonetheless.
"Then, he said, 'Oh my foolish and wicked daughter, I will insist on the strictest compliance with the laws of this town. By those laws, any outsider who wishes to marry a fraulein of Stroebeck must play her father, or his champion, at chess. If the prospective bridegroom loses, he must pay a forfeit to the town treasury.'
"The penalty is much higher if her father did not consent to the marriage. That wrinkle is not in conflict with canon law, because it does not formally forbid the marriage itself."
"Chess? How strange."
"Stroebeck's the Schachdorf, the 'chess village.' They all learn to play when they are knee-high, boys and girls alike. Unfortunately, we got caught before my Birgit could teach me much more than the pieces and their moves.
"If her father liked me, he could have appointed, say, his six year old son, or the village idiot, to challenge me. But he wasn't keen on having me as a son-in-law, so he took me on himself. And he'd been village champion three years running."
In the meantime, the chess players had finished their game. One of them, a solidly built man with grey hair, got up at this point. "Hi, my name is Vince Masaniello. I couldn't help but overhear you."
Felix shrugged. "That's all right. I suppose there is some cathartic relief in talking about it."
"So let me get this straight," Vince said. "There is a village out in the Harz Mountains, near Halberstadt, where the commoners play chess."
"Yes, that's right. My sweetheart told me that it all started when the Bishop of Halberstadt imprisoned some prince or duke in a tower in Stroebeck. He was bored, so he drew a chessboard on the floor of his cell, and made pieces, and taught his guards how to play. They taught their friends, and the game became popular. Even the women played.
"Then some court functionary had to spend a night in Stroebeck, and was surprised when the mayor invited him to play chess. And even more surprised when the mayor beat him repeatedly.
"Word spread, and upper class Brandenburgers would make a point of stopping by to play. Not just with the Mayor, but with any villager who showed an interest.
"Time came when, once a year, some bigwig would come to Stroebeck and play against their chess champion. If the Stroebecker won, well, they didn't have to pay taxes that year."
Vince snickered. "I bet that really gave a boost to chess education in Stroebeck."
"So I was told. But my problem is that if you want to marry a Stroebeck girl, you have to either beat her father's champion at chess, or pay a big fine. And I had neither the chess skills nor the cash. I am a painter without a big patron."
Vince pondered Felix' story. "The best chess player in Grantville is Joshua Modi. He held master rank in the United States Chess Federation."
"Master? There is a Chess Guild in Grantville?"
"Oh, no. It is a just a rank. The bottom rung in the UCSF is Class J. The classes go up to Class A, and then above that are Expert, Master, and Senior Master."
"And how many people are of Joshua Modi's rank?"
"Perhaps one USCF member in one hundred. And only perhaps one in fifty Americans was a member of the USCF."
"That is impressive. Do you think he would be willing to teach me?"
Vince scratched his head. "I am sure he would love to do so, but I doubt he has the time. He and Colette are spending most of their time in Essen nowadays. Greg's a fine player, too, but he is busy designing things-that-go-boom in Magdeburg. They may be able to give you a few tips before you have your rematch in Stroebeck, but that's about it."
"Can you help me?"
"Well, I am no chess master, but the knowledge of the game has advanced a lot in the four centuries since the Ring of Fire. If you are bright, I am sure I can teach you enough so that you will give your prospective father-in-law quite a shock."
"I would be very grateful." Felix bit his lip.
"What's the matter."
"My heart is big but my purse is small."
Vince smiled. "Don't worry about that, an old man likes to have company. You will learn by playing with me and my friends." He spread out his hands, indicating the room. "The Grantville Chess Club takes over this place every Thursday night. And I am sure we can find some chess books you can borrow and study, so we don't beat you too many times in a row."
"The Grantville Chess Club?" asked Felix.
"Yes, didn't you notice the sign outside?" Felix walked over to the door and poked his head outside. The Inn's sign showed a red, four-pointed crown, with a lightning bolt over it.
"I suppose the crown is symbolic of the queen, and the lightning bolt of madness," said Felix doubtfully. "But what does that have to do with chess?"
Vince explained. The Inn had been started by Joshua and Colette Modi. Its name was a chess player in-joke. The medieval chess queen had been a rather weak piece, but its role had changed over the past century. The Italian masters Lucena and Damiano popularized a new, faster form of chess, in which the Bishop was allowed to move more than one space at a time, and the Queen was given the powers of both the Rook and the improved Bishop. The new game reached Germany by 1536, where it was usually called the "rapid" or "foreign" chess game.
"And if you preferred the old game," Vince concluded, "you called it the 'chess of the maddened Queen.'"
* * *
"Is this your prayer book, sister?" asked Karl.
Birgit looked up. "Yes, it is."
"Well, don't leave it out." He handed it to her.
"I will take it to my room right now. I might read a prayer or two, while I am at it."
Birgit carefully closed the door to her bedchamber. As expected, a letter was concealed inside the book. It was from Felix. He assured her of his undying love, and announced that he had safely arrived in Grantville. Birgit was happy to learn that he had found someone to tutor him in chess. But really, he needed to find buyers for his art.
The letter ended with a story. "I must tell you about the dream I had. We were standing together on the battlements of the tower in Stroebeck, watching the sunrise. Suddenly, the tower shrunk, and we shrunk with it. The tower was now a fighting platform on the back of a great elephant, and the elephant was standing on a giant chessboard. The other pieces were there, too, and they were alive as well. The knight was on a horseback, and carried a great lance; the bishop stood, brandishing a mighty mace. For you know, dear Birgit, that the church militant cannot use edged weapons. The queen had a chariot drawn by a winged dragon, and the king sat on a throne carried by bearers. I could not see the Player who controlled our movements, but his opponent was your Father.
"If one piece captured another, they actually fought, the former slaying the latter. At last we were brought into play, capturing a pawn. But then your father's queen charged across the board, straight toward us, her mount breathing fire that singed us from several squares away. It was clear that we were doomed.
"Then I woke up, of course."
Clearly, her sweetheart did not have fond memories of his first chess match. Not surprising.
But Felix' dream had given Birgit an idea. At her first opportunity, Birgit visited the minister at the Church of Saint Pancratius in Stroebeck. "Reverend Sir, there is a way in which our town can draw some business from Halberstadt."
"What do you have in mind, Birgit?"
"A game of what you might call, 'living chess.' The pieces are played by townspeople. The pawns are young children, the minor pieces are older ones. And perhaps the privilege of being the king, queen and rook could be sold to visitors. Captures would be presented as a mock battle. And the village champion could play a paying visitor. Or some dignitary."
"What an interesting idea, Birgit. I will tell the Mayor how clever you are."
"Oh, it wasn't my idea. I am just a girl, after all. It is something that Felix thought of."
"Felix? The young artist your father disapproves of? You have been in touch with him?"
"Yes, sir. Please don't tell father. Felix will return in six months. He deserves a fair rematch. Please don't let father trick him into playing some crazy variant."
"Well, if he is willing to come back in six months, it says something about his character. And this 'living chess' idea of his, it speaks well for his creativity and intelligence. I will see what I can do."
* * *
On that first Thursday, Vince had taught Felix the moves of each piece, and taught him how to mate using the major pieces, the Queen and Rook, against a lone enemy King. He also showed him a few common chess situations: discovered check, double check, and forks. Felix was falling asleep at that point, and Vince ordered him home to get some sleep.
When Felix returned, the following week, Vince announced that it was time for Felix to play an actual game. Not surprisingly, Vince won match after match.
Felix sighed. "Chess is taking so long to learn. Sketching and painting came so naturally to me."
"I hope you won't take offense, young man," said Vince, "but I think that your time could be better spent putting your artistic skills to good use, rather than learning how to play chess. If you have a livelihood, your Birgit's father will be more likely to favor the marriage, and you can afford to pay that penalty if you lose the 'engagement' game."
Felix shrugged. "In the rest of Germany, your standing in the community is primarily dependent on your ancestry, and your financial situation. But in Stroebeck, a great deal of consideration is given to how well you play chess. So yes, I need to make money, but I cannot ignore the Stroebeckers' board game obsession."
"I understand. Let me show you what you did wrong in the last game." He did so.
* * *
"Dearest Birgit," wrote Felix. "I begrudge every day I must spend here in Grantville, without you. It is purgatory.
"Nonetheless, Grantville has its compensations. First of all, there are no guilds. Can you imagine that? I can sell my work without either paying dues, or waiting for a market day.
"Moreover, my landscape drawings have drawn attention from an unexpected quarter. The school here teaches a branch of natural philosophy which they call 'geology.' It is the study of the Earth. One of the teachers walked by and noticed how accurate my depiction of what they call the 'ring wall' was. I told him about where I have traveled, and the specimens I collected, and he said that the government might be interested in my services. I could make maps, and draw illustrations of minerals, rocks and landforms for the books they are writing, and even perhaps train to be a 'field geologist.'
"Please give me your advice."
Felix entrusted the letter to a friend who had business in the Harz Mountains. In token of his appreciation, Felix sketched the friend's daughter. "Her grandparents in Braunschweig will be very happy to see how much she's grown!" the friend commented.
The response came a month later. "Dearest Felix, I hope and trust that you immediately accepted this offer. It gives you a reliable source of income, which few artists enjoy. Moreover, it moves you into government circles in which you may come to the attention of greater men, whose patronage can allow you more freedom in what you choose to portray."
* * *
Birgit gritted her teeth. She knew it wasn't proper, but she couldn't help herself. This was the third time in three months that a young man had been invited to her home for dinner. A young, unmarried man, of good family and prospects, of course.
One would-be beau was a journeyman smith, who could take over her father's smithy one day. He had been unwise enough to say that he was "just passing through Stroebeck."
"Passing through Stroebeck?" she had asked in mock surprise. "On your way to where? Paris? Venice? Vienna? Moscow? Far Cathay?" Before she was done with him, her victim wished he was in far Cathay.
Another, a clergyman's son, had bragged of having attended the University of Wittenberg. Birgit pretended to be impressed, lured him into a game of chess, and caught him in a four move Scholar's Mate. She then scornfully suggested that he return to his studies if he couldn't outplay a mere girl.
Birgit's father had sternly warned her to be polite this time. Or else. The latest pawn in her father's game of matrimony was even less promising than the first two. He was her second cousin, a merchant's clerk in Leipzig. He was handsome, but boring.
After an interminable dinner, in which he contributed such sprightly conversational tidbits as "pass the salt, cuz," Birgit suggested that they take a walk to the town square together. Her father beamed.
However, Birgit had made her plans. Once they were out of her father's sight, she said brightly, "Oh, we must stop at my friend Barbel's house. She will be so upset with me if I go to town without her." Cuz was agreeable to this detour.
They knocked, Barbel emerged, Barbel batted her eyelashes at Cuz, right on schedule. As the threesome walked, Birgit contrived to fall slightly behind the other two. In town, they encountered Anna. Also on schedule.
Anna suggested that they go visit Max. Barbel demurred. "I have an idea," said Birgit. "Barbel can take our guest to see the Tower, and I will go with Anna. We will meet up at the square when we are done."
Cuz politely declined. "I am here to see Birgit, I can't leave her behind."
"Don't be silly, you have seen me many times before. Like that time when I was seven years old, and I threw up on you." Birgit could see that Cuz had not forgotten that incident.
"It is your duty to escort Barbel." It wasn't very logical, but Barbel was giving Cuz plenty of encouragement. Which Birgit wasn't. He agreed, and they all went their separate ways.
When Cuz proposed to Barbel a few weeks later, it was a surprise to her father, but definitely not to Birgit.
Birgit had removed her father's rook, bishop and pawn from play, but she needed her knight to win the game.
* * *
Felix relaxed into the booth he'd managed to acquire at Tip's Bar. He'd achieved some notoriety, as he was the first down-timer his Grantville friends had met who could say he had been in America. More precisely, who had been in what, but for the Ring of Fire, would have become the United States.
One of his new up-timer friends, Louis Giamarino, bought the first round. "So, Felix, how come you're here?"
"Here in Tip's Bar? I am celebrating the printing of the new geology pamphlet I illustrated." Felix just happened to have a copy with him, which he proudly presented to Louis. It had sketches of the rim wall, with and without the rock formations labeled, diagrams explaining how a topographic map depicted a landscape, and so on.
Louis flipped through the slim pamphlet quickly, and closed it with a snap. "Well, congratulations. But I meant, here in Grantville. I'm telling you, if I could get back to America, I'd go in a heartbeat."
Felix shook his head. "It would not be the America you remember, the America in the twentieth-century books I have been shown. It is mostly wilderness. Beautiful, but savage."
Louis spotted a buddy, Tony Masaniello, and waved him over. "Hey, Tony, c'mere. This is Felix of New York."
"New York?" said Tony. "But you didn't come through the Ring of Fire."
"No, he lived in down-time New York. What they call New Amsterdam. But he was born in Holland."
"Really? How'd you end up in America, then?"
Felix took a deep breath. "This is a long story, please stop me if I am telling you too much.
"You have heard of Peter Minuit, perhaps? Herr Minuit was born in Wesel. He patronized my father's bookshop because he, too, was German born.
"In 1625, the Dutch West India Company honored Herr Minuit with the appointment of Director General of New Netherland. He asked my father if he knew of an artist, skilled, yet young enough to risk the rigors of a transatlantic voyage. One who could prepare maps, as well as drawings. Drawings which might intrigue the people back home to invest in the Company, and perhaps even to settle in New Netherland.
"My father, of course, volunteered me! But in truth I was pleased by the prospect of seeing new lands and peoples, and capturing them on paper and canvas. I stayed in the New World for several years."
Felix sighed. He was approaching the painful part. "Then, unfortunately, my patron had a falling-out with his superiors. He was recalled, and I left with him. That was in early 1632.
"Then matters turned from bad to worse. Our ship, the Unity, was damaged by a storm, and we had to seek shelter in the British port of Plymouth. Instead of offering us aid and comfort, the English threw us into prison and seized our goods, my paintings included."
"Why did they do that?"
"The English had the nerve to claim that because Cabot landed in Newfoundland in 1497, that they thereby gained title to all of America, including New Amsterdam. And so all of our American goods belonged to them, not us."
Felix raised his voice, involuntarily. "Unbelievable! Considering that Cabot thought he was on the shores of Asia. And, of course, that he didn't properly map the territory, or land settlers."
"Easy, Felix, don't burst an artery."
"We were released, eventually, but we didn't reach Amsterdam until May of 1632. And I never saw my American paintings again."
Felix shrugged. "I have heard that King Charles is fond of art. He knighted Rubens and Van Dyck, after all. I suppose that my paintings are now in good company, at least."
Felix took a long swallow. "Fortunately, the English thieves didn't think to take my sketchbooks. And, of course, I still own all the artwork that I did before I went to the New World.
"It is really too bad that so much of it is still trapped in Amsterdam. I would like to show Birgit my etchings."
All the up-timers laughed. Felix looked at them confused. What was so funny?
* * *
Hans Wegener normally had his son go to Halberstadt for supplies not available in Stroebeck, but this time he had to make the trip himself. Karl was sick in bed.
Hans had traipsed about more than he expected to; his usual supplier had been out of stock on several items. Hans passed The Roasted Pig, and decided to stop for something to eat before returning to Stroebeck.
Hans placed his order, and then noticed that the innkeeper was giving him a strange look. Hans beckoned the man over. "Am I a two-headed calf? Why do you stare at me so?"
"It is just that you look very much like someone who comes here regularly."
"A younger man? Perhaps an inch taller than me, but a similar build? Big frontal lock of hair, always askew?"
"Yes, that's the one. His name is Karl."
"That's my son. He's sick today. I am in town in his stead."
"Ah, then you'll be wanting his mail."
Mail?
Rummage, rummage. The innkeeper found what he was looking for. "Here you are." He extended his hand for a tip, and Hans grudgingly gave him a small coin.
Hans studied both sides of the letter, then held it up to the light. Enough, he thought. He broke the seal, and read the letter. His face purpled.
My son! My daughter! In cahoots with that artist! I'll disown them! And I'll throttle that Felix!
Wait. I have a better idea. "Are you a father?" he asked the innkeeper.
"Why, yes, I am. Why do you ask?"
"Your son, or daughter, ever do anything foolish? Despite your warnings?" Many times, the innkeeper assured him.
"Well this letter writing, it is about something foolish. And parents must look out for each other in these situations. So what I would like you to do is this. If any other letters come in for Karl, you tell him nothing, but hold them for me. And I will come by, from time to time, and pay you a silver piece for each one. Also, if Karl has any letters to send, you accept them, but don't send them on. I will buy them back at the same price."
Whether driven by parental solidarity, or professional cupidity, the innkeeper agreed.
That's that, thought Hans. Check!
* * *
Vince had told Felix that he was happy to hear that the Stroebeckers had offered Felix the choice of playing either the old or the new versions of chess. That meant that when Felix returned for his rematch, he could insist on the rule of the mad queen, which in turn would mean that he would have the full benefit of several hundred years of chess analysis.
What Felix hadn't been prepared for was just how confusing those chess manuals were. Reading them was like reading Egyptian hieroglyphics. If anyone actually could read them, that is; Felix was vaguely aware that Athanasius Kircher, the famous Jesuit scholar, had been working on that project.
Hours of poring over those manuals. Hours of playing chess at the club. The only thing that had kept Felix motivated was the thought of how much it would mean to Birgit if Felix could win her in the traditional Stroebecker fashion. Every time he read one of her letters, he felt inspired, and returned to his studies with renewed vigor.
Talking about letters . . . why hadn't she written recently? It had been . . . weeks. Had she found someone else? What could Felix do to remind her of his love?
Felix started rummaging through his room. There it was, his most precious sketchbook, the one he used in Halberstadt those few months ago. Now he needed a piece of wood. But wait. He could draw what he wanted readily enough, but he didn't have time to cut away all of the wood save for the parts he had drawn upon. Well, suppose he cut away the lines. That would print as white lines on black. Strange, but all that he could do in the time he had. Felix went to work . . . .
* * *
Birgit was fretting. This coming Saturday would be exactly six months since Felix' ill-fated first chess game. Thus, it would be the first day on which he could formally demand a rematch in order to win her hand. But she had not gotten a letter from Felix in weeks.
Will he come? He said he was doing well in Grantville. He has illustrated a book. His last letter said that he met a duke, one who writes and collects books, and wants Felix to illustrate his latest work. So Felix now has commissions. Patronage. Will he want to leave?
He must be meeting rich merchants, and noblemen. And their daughters. He also wrote that he is giving art lessons in some sort of academy. Are those daughters taking lessons from him?
Birgit had a sudden mental picture of how such a lesson might evolve. The rich merchant's daughter pleads that she doesn't know how to hold the paintbrush. Felix comes behind her, and guides her hand with his own. Urgh!
He hasn't mentioned any girls in Grantville. Is that because he hasn't met any he likes? Or is he avoiding the subject? Perhaps he doesn't want to hurt my feelings, tell me that he has found someone else.
No that can't be. He loves me. On Saturday morning, I will climb the stairs of the Wartturm, the old tower where Bishop Arnulf imprisoned Duke Guncellin centuries ago, so I will see him as he comes up the road. And I will do it every Saturday morning, until he comes.
If he comes. He has traveled all over the world. What can he see in a girl who never traveled farther than Leipzig?
But no. He sees more than my pretty face. He enjoyed talking to me. He values my advice. He will come.
She trembled. What will I do if he doesn't come?
* * *
It was Monday, and Birgit wasn't surprised to hear a knock at the door. It was her friend, Anna. Birgit had been forbidden to go to Halberstadt, so Anna was Birgit's news source.
Her mother was out in the garden, and her father and brother were in the smithy, so they had some measure of privacy.
"Look what I have," said Anna. What she displayed was a white-on-black print, depicting three women and a man. Birgit gasped. It was virtually the same picture that Felix had drawn of Birgit, Anna, Barbel and himself, months ago. In fact, it was titled, The Judgment of Paris.
"Where did you get this?"
"Apparently they arrived in Halberstadt a few weeks ago. Went to one of the booksellers first, and they have been circulating since then."
Birgit snatched the print out of Anna's hands.
"Hey, I'm in it, too!" Anna protested.
"You know what this means? It means that Felix hasn't forgotten me." Birgit sighed with relief. "Perhaps he will be here this coming Saturday."
* * *
"So," said Hans Wegener jovially, "let's play chess. Sooner we play, sooner you lose, sooner you leave, sooner my Birgit marries someone worthy of her." Hans and Felix were in the town hall, where "marriage matches" were traditionally held. A large crowd had gathered to watch; such a match was a big event even under ordinary circumstances. But to see a rematch with an insistent suitor? One vehemently opposed by the father? Only the dead of Stroebeck were not in attendance. Felix' eyes went to Birgit, who, taking advantage of her father being turned away from her, blew Felix a kiss. Felix blushed.
Hans pulled out a chessboard, and began setting up pieces. Felix wasn't too worried. He had spent a great deal of time playing chess with up-timers and down-timers at the Modi's Inn, solving chess problems in a book he had been lent, and reading books on the theory of the game. He had even been given the opportunity to spend some hours battling Josh Modi's "computer chess program."
Felix smiled at Birgit, and then mentally reviewed the opening repertoire he had been taught. He didn't pay much attention to Hans' movements until Hans leaned back in his chair.
Suddenly, Felix did a double-take. The board was too long. It was twelve squares by eight.
Hans caught Felix' look of dismay. "Haven't seen this one before? It is courier chess. Very old, dates back, oh, almost to the time of Barbarossa. You don't know it? Here are the pieces, rook, knight, alfil, courier, mann, king, fers, schleich, courier, alfil, knight and rook. And twelve pawns in front. We each begin with the same four moves. Oh, no castling, assuming you know what that is." Hans smiled broadly.
"This is unfair," Felix protested.
Hans shrugged. "This is a traditional game."
Felix appealed to the Mayor. "This form of chess is not traditional where I come from. It is not fair that I have to play it."
The Mayor harrumphed. "It is not played in the Low Countries, perhaps, but it is played in Germany. And most certainly in Stroebeck."
"But isn't Herr Wegener challenging me? In dueling, the challenged one has the choice of weapons, so I should have the choice of chess board and chess rules." Felix was worried. Different board, different pieces, forced opening; it undermined all his hard-won twentieth-century chess knowledge.
The crowd murmured. At this point, Birgit's quiet lobbying paid off. Her ally, the minister, said, "that seems reasonable to me." Hans scowled at the churchman. The latter added calmly, "Surely, Herr Wegener, your chess skills permit you to make this concession."
"Oh, very well." The Mayor offered Hans a more modern-appearing chessboard, and Hans set up the pieces. Felix then carefully explained his assumptions as to how all the pieces moved, when and how a pawn could be promoted, and, exactly how castling was performed. Felix had been warned how many different castling variations were practiced in his time.
"A chess lawyer," Hans commented. Hans pulled a pair of pawns, white and black, off the board. "I don't believe that the challenged in dueling has the right to shoot first." He put the pawns behind his back, shuffled them about, then brought both fists forward. "Pick your ill-fated army."
Felix tapped Hans' left hand; Hans opened it, revealing the white pawn. Felix would move first. Felix had questioned Duke Augustus, a down-time chess author who occasionally visited the Inn of the Maddened Queen, as to what openings and defenses were favored in the seventeenth century. Felix' up-time friends had helped him pick out and study an opening repertoire which would give a down-timer a shock. But they had warned him that it would only take him so far; he had to be able to improvise if he wanted to win against a good opponent.
In quick succession, the artist and the smith each moved out their king pawns. Felix attacked with his kingside knight; Hans defended with its queenside counterpart. Felix moved out his Bishop to the fourth rank.
Hans raised his eyebrows. "Well, someone has been giving you lessons. It is the Italian Game. I know it very well indeed." He, too, moved his bishop to bishop four.
Felix responded with Pawn to Queen Knight Four, offering his pawn up to capture by his opponent's bishop. It was the first move of the Evans Gambit, the darling of the great attacking players of the nineteenth century. According to all Felix' sources, it was unknown to the chess fans of the seventeenth century. Felix was nervous, however. How complete was the Grantville Chess Club's knowledge of seventeenth-century chess? They hadn't warned him about courier chess, had they? Could the Evans Gambit be well known to Hans?
"Pawn pusher!" said Hans with delight. "Didn't you see my bishop?"
Felix was also pleased, but concealed his reaction to Hans' outburst. He knew the story behind the Evans Gambit. Its inventor, Captain Evans spent many hours playing it against himself, and finally sprung it on the British champion, MacDonnell. Evans won; it was a great upset.
The gambit's great merit was that it allowed for powerful attacking combinations in the middle game. The problem was that if Black survived the onslaught, and held on to the gambit pawn, then he had the advantage in the endgame.
If Felix hadn't earned enough from his work in Grantville to pay the forfeit, he wouldn't have dared play the Evans Gambit. But the goal now was not really to satisfy Stroebeck traditions, but to impress Birgit's poppa. And that would more likely be achieved by bold attacking play, than by a cautious strategy.
Felix constructed a strong pawn center, and attacked vigorously. Hans tried to counterattack, and did not deign to protect his king by castling. He soon regretted this oversight.
"Mate in three," Felix announced. He smiled at Birgit, who gave him a thumb's up.
Hans studied the board, then sent it crashing to the floor. "Why must I lose to this idiot?" he complained. Clearly, the Evans Gambit had won Birgit's hand, but not Hans' approval.
Birgit glared at her father. "That is no way to speak about my fiancé."
"That was an interesting game," the mayor commented. "I wish we had a way of reconstructing it."
Felix saw an opportunity to earn a few brownie points. "Actually, there is a method. In Grantville, where I am working now, the chess players have recorded thousands of chess games. I could teach the people of Stroebeck how to read these records, and how to notate their own games."
"Thousands of chess games? The commoners play chess in Grantville, too?"
"Anyone can play chess in Grantville. And they have records of chess games from hundreds of years of play." He looked slyly at Hans Wegener. "I could bring one of their chess books for you, Herr Wegener. It is the sort of thing that a dutiful son-in-law would do."
"That is . . . thoughtful of you," said Hans. He paused. "I would like to have a few minutes to speak to my daughter alone."
"Of course," said Felix. He was confident that nothing Hans could say could diminish Birgit's love, or persuade her not to marry him, now that Felix had broken down the barrier set by Stroebeck tradition. His only fear was that Hans might do something foolish, like try to carry Birgit off against her will.
Hans and Birgit went into an alcove, and Hans addressed his daughter. "I still don't like the idea of your marrying a painter. Yes, I know a few are honored and rewarded beyond measure by princes. But how many die forgotten, in poverty?"
Birgit stared at her father. "I have seen his work. It is very good. And it has been well received in this town of Grantville, which stands high in the regard of Gustavus Adolphus. True, he is poor right now. But he has good prospects of advancement. And, here in Stroebeck, we have a name for taking a reasonable risk, don't we? It is playing a gambit, yes?"
Her father nodded, slowly.