Grantville, June 1633
"Could I have a word with you, Father Johannes?"
Johannes Grunwald jumped up from the table with a gasp and spun around quickly, sending several maps and notes to the floor. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting anybody. It's rather late." He looked at the elegant young man in the doorway, and relaxed slightly. He had met Don Francisco Nasi only in passing, but, while the head of the Abrabanel financial network in Germany might not be the most reassuring person to make an unexpected appearance close to midnight, the young Jew wasn't likely to be a personal threat either. Johannes looked down on the maps and floor plans on the table. "Please sit down, Don Francisco, I don't suppose you have much need to know the layout of Fulda's main buildings?"
"Not much, no. But my apology for startling you, Father Johannes. I suppose you are preparing something for the NUS team in Fulda?" Francisco Nasi closed the door and sat down at the table in the high school classroom, considering the German priest. Father Johannes had been one of the foremost painters of propaganda broadsheets for the Holy Roman Empire until the atrocities at Magdeburg had made him revolt, flee and finally—a year and a half ago—seek refuge in Grantville. He had easily been worth his stipend as a teacher, not so much for his knowledge of languages and paints, as because after two decades of painting for both clerical and secular rulers all over Germany, his knowledge of people, towns, and buildings was without equal among the new citizens in Grantville. "I was wondering, Father Johannes, if you'd heard anything from the Inquisition?"
"No. Nothing." Johannes sat down at the table too, and fiddled with his pen. "Father Mazzare's contacts within the Church tell of several people asking for Father Johannes the painter, but those asking are seemingly just interested in having me come to paint for them. I am told you head a vast network of all kinds of contacts, Don Francisco. Have you heard anything?"
"Oh no, nothing about you from the Inquisition," Don Francisco smiled. "Do you worry about an abduction? Or perhaps a formal request for you?"
"I don't think those I personally insulted at Magdeburg have enough power for either. My main value to anybody seems to be the paintings I make. I would like that, if only people wanted their beauty rather than their propaganda value." Johannes shrugged. "Frankly, the most likely thing to happen is an attempt to make me go back to making propaganda for the Church—willingly or under threat from the Inquisition. If I refuse that, but keep a low profile, I may be excommunicated or I may just be ignored. Only if I'm seen to work against the Church—or its political interests—do I expect any serious force to be brought against me. In which case an assassination may be easier to arrange than an abduction, at least in the areas where the Americans keep order."
"I see." Don Francisco leaned back in the chair and steepled his hands. "As I said, I've heard nothing about you in connection with the Inquisition. But I was wondering if you might be willing to leave Grantville. Perhaps to accept a few commissions from some of the more open-minded and politically neutral of your old patrons?"
"And?" Father Johannes too leaned back and looked straight at the polished young man across the table.
Don Francisco shrugged. "Look out for opportunities. Keep your options open, I think the Americans call it."
Johannes kept looking. "Please excuse my rudeness, Don Francisco, but why are you taking an interest in this? Are you asking me to report to you?"
"If you so wish. You haven't been excommunicated, so you're still a Catholic priest. And a man. With loyalties to whomever or whatever you are loyal to."
"And just what, Don Francisco, are you loyal to?"
"Primarily my family and my faith. Is that so different from you?"
"No. Different family and different faith, of course, but that's not my problem. Where do the Americans enter your loyalties?"
"The Americans? Not the NUS or CPE?"
Johannes nodded. "Ideas and ideals, not politics and compromises."
Don Francisco raised his eyebrows and looked up at the ceiling, "What the Americans have begun may well be the best chance for prosperity and security in Europe today, for my family as well as for my faith. We realize that they are just a small town and risk drowning in the greater political picture. So I—and my family—try to aid them. Help them help themselves and thus ourselves." He looked back again to Johannes. "You have, since your arrival here, been giving the American leaders quite a lot of help yourself, Father Johannes, with your lessons in Contemporary Social and Political Studies."
Johannes laughed a little, "Oh yes. Everything I Know About the Present Political Situation—its Players and Powers. Still, my family and I owe the Americans a debt for helping little Johann, the son of my nephew Herr Martin Grunwald."
"And that debt is the only reason for your help? You don't agree with the American goals?"
Johannes shrugged, "Both yes and no. Aside from teaching and painting I've spent just about every spare waking moment reading the American books of history and philosophy. I think I've got a good idea of what they are and what they are trying to do. On the whole I'm fairly certain I approve. What still bothers me is that all these important new ideas come from people who seemingly fear neither God nor the Devil. How about you, Don Francisco? Do you fear God and do you fear the Devil?"
"I'm a Jew, Father Johannes. Our faith is different. Personally I hope God will have mercy on my human frailty, and think that the Devil—if such exists—does his work on Earth and among the living." Don Francisco rose from his chair. "But please consider my words, Father Johannes. The American's alliance with the Swedish king has made them a power to consider. It would be well to know how this is viewed among the clerical nobility."
"I'll think about it." Johannes started gathering his papers, but Don Francisco remained by the table watching him.
"You have been supplying the American leaders with all kinds of information, Father Johannes. And by now the Americans are being taken very seriously by both the Catholic Church and the secular powers. Do think—carefully."
The Thuringen Gardens was filled almost to capacity in the warm and dusty afternoon, but Johannes steered his friend, Frank Erbst, to a quiet corner. Frank was a big, strong, red-haired bear of a man, with a warm smile and an ever-ready interest in the world around him. He and Johannes had grown up together on Grunwald-an-der-Saale, the estate Frank now managed for Johannes' older brother Marcus Grunwald, professor of theology at the University in Jena. Ever since his arrival in Grantville, Johannes had been sending seeds and information about American farming to Frank. Despite Marcus' dislike of everything connected with the Americans, Frank had—with great enthusiasm—put the new crops and ideas to use at the estate. And despite the drought, the tomatoes and long beans had been running rampant during the summer on the sunny hillsides along the Saale River. Now, just before the main harvest was about to start, Frank had come to Grantville—the best market for the new crops—to make arrangements with several traders.
With their second tankards half-drained, the two old friends were now catching up on family news.
"Have you heard from your nephew Martin recently, Johannes? He was scuttling around like a woodcock on his new crutches, when I went to Jena last spring. He also wanted me to write to him about growing the new crops. He seemed to be doing some kind of avisa."
Johannes laughed, "It's not an avisa, Frank. I sent Martin some copies I'd made of the Americans' magazines, especially one in German called Simplicissimus. Martin has become the publisher of a monthly newspaper magazine—with his wife, Louisa, handling the legwork and the practical arrangements. Marcus helped with getting the permissions before he saw just what Martin and Louisa intend to publish."
"I've seen such before." Frank shrugged. "Why would Marcus object to council decisions posted on tavern walls."
"Simplicissimus is different, Frank. The Americans are every bit as good at this, as they are at farming. What Martin offers for public subscription, and delivers by post every month—soon every two weeks—is a mixture of information and entertainment. There's the latest political news, along with detailed explanations about the persons and places mentioned. There are colored plates with the latest fashions, printed with new American methods. There are pictures and descriptions of beautiful homes, and recipes for the most fashionable food. And most of all: there are illustrated jokes and gossip about court scandals and political mistakes. I've made quite a lot of those illustrations for the new magazine. I promise you, it's like nothing you've seen before. I'll give you some copies to take home."
"Sounds odd to me, but I can well imagine my wife and her sisters with their heads together over such a thing."
"Yes. And taverns, public libraries, noble households, city councils, discussion groups and students. They are all buying it for the political news, you see. Never dreaming of reading the gossip."
"Becoming a cynic, Johannes?"
The whimsy faded from Johannes eyes, and he called for two more beers before continuing in an entirely different voice. "The Americans genuinely want to stop things like war, plague, and poverty, and they see democracy and education as some of the most important steps towards that goal. Judging from their history, they are right. Martin is promoting these ideas—spreading them among the gossip and jokes in his new magazine. I have helped him do that, but . . ."
"But now you regret that?"
"No. And I'll also go on making those pro-democracy cartoons." Johannes drank deeply from his beer. "It's just that . . . There is nothing among the American ideas to encourage people to bow to God's will or trust his priests."
Frank sat silently for a while, doodling in the wet circles on the table. Bowing to God's will was something you occasionally were forced to do, when no other choices existed. And trusting a priest? That damned well depended on the priest! Frank had no objection to trusting a trustworthy man who happened also to be a priest. But then that went for tinkers and horse traders as well. Still, even after all his fellow priests had done to him, Johannes saw things differently, and in the end Frank said slowly, "I remember a letter you wrote before taking your vows, Johannes. About how some of your fellow students held long discussions about exactly how many imps were around in the world, and the precise rank of the various kinds of angels in Heaven. These discussions irritated you, since the truth could not be known. Unless you've been having divine visions on the sly, you cannot know the future, and I'd say you should just follow your heart."
"Well, my heart tells me that however they got here, the Americans are not here for evil. Their lack of respect for the Lord still bothers me, but you are right—I cannot know the future. And it's about time that I decided what I personally should do—with or without the Americans—instead of hiding here." Johannes smiled wryly into his beer. "I used to be such a self-absorbed little artist, ignoring everything but my paintings, even when reality kicked my arse. Well, Magdeburg definitely did more than just kick, and after my stay here in Grantville, it's certain I'll never go back to what I was."
"Do you plan to leave? You wrote that you felt safe here, but you could go to Jena—or with me back to the estate?"
"I'm probably safer with the Americans than anywhere else. The Inquisition has no power here in Grantville, and Father Mazzare has assured me that I have committed no crime as the Americans see it. In Jena I know Marcus would try to protect me—his pride if nothing else would see to that—but he might not be able to. The Inquisition has no power there. Catholics accusing me of heresy or excommunicating me would not cause trouble with the Protestants. More probably, it would delight them. But blasphemy is an entirely different matter."
"Blasphemy! You?" Frank laughed.
"That depends on how you define blasphemy, Frank. I was much too upset about Magdeburg to weigh my words. But no, I don't think I'll stay here much longer. Perhaps for the winter. It's safe and pleasant, but I'm tired of hiding, and I don't really feel at home among the Americans." Johannes smiled again. "When I first arrived, I actually went around asking people: 'Do you fear God, and do you fear the Devil?' Father Mazzare answered that he did fear the Devil, not as a physical figure but as the evil in mankind. The Lord, he did not fear, as the love was too great to leave room for any fear."
"I like that."
"Me too. I finally stopped asking after a young American woman answered: 'Of course not, God is good, and once you know the Devil, you can just avoid him.' " Johannes shook his head. "Such arrogance."
"And after such a wise counsel, you too decided to trust that God is good and put your faith in Him? You know, " said Frank, chuckling, "that's just the kind of thing Louisa's late sister, Anna, could have said." Then he went on, still smiling. "I've always wondered if you were not at least a little in love with Anna?"
"Don't be silly. Anna was a frivolous little feather head."
"And?"
"And she was also a married woman, and I am a Catholic priest."
Frank laughed at his friend. "I've long felt that you needed to do something like falling in love with a married woman. In fact, do anything that would make you forget your paintings and pay some more attention to the people around you. But seriously, what are you planning to do?"
"There's a man here in Grantville, a Jew named Francisco Nasi. He has suggested accepting a few commissions from some of my old patrons. Keeping my options open, the Americans call it." Johannes looked into his beer and smiled.
"Well, I can think of a few other things to call that." Frank's smile turned into a scowl. "Can't you think of anything better to do with your life?"
"Oh yes. I haven't been excommunicated, so I'm still a priest. I've been helping Father Mazzare at Saint Mary's here in Grantville, but I never was a parish priest and don't plan to make a living from that. Instead I'm becoming what the Americans call a middleman for a while."
"An entremeteur? Well, you did tell me some Americans called priests 'God-pimps.' " Frank laughed until he nearly fell off the chair.
"Don't be vulgar. It's perfectly respectable. And I better go find some food; it's not small beer we've been drinking." Johannes walked off in a huff.
Even with platters of bread, cheese, pickles and sausage in front of him, Frank kept chuckling, and, as the food reached his stomach, Johannes started smiling too.
"All right Frank, you won that one. But it's actually a very interesting project. And if it works, even the middleman's share is likely to be more money than either of us have ever seen."
"Sounds very interesting." Frank was suddenly very serious. "With two years of drought, the water in the Saale River is too low for even the rafts to float, and most of the profit from the estate is used to pay for transporting the goods overland. If it hadn't been for the American crops, there would have been nothing left for your brother's household in Jena. He's paid by the university, so it's not that big a problem for him, but two of my brothers-in-law are forced to look for paying work this winter. With grain yields as low as two to one, they'll be forced to eat the seed grain, and buy new come spring."
"That bad? Tell them to come here to Grantville. Especially people used to working with wood or metal are badly needed. And they could learn about the new farming methods from Herr Willie Ray Hudson in the evenings. I'll introduce you to Herr Hudson, and you can write letters of recommendation. And if any adult female can be spared from the households, they can come too; many of the things the Americans do don't need large muscles."
"My sister Felicia is almost as strong as I am, but it's a very good idea. Thank you. But what is this project of yours?"
"You know porcelain, that beautiful white ceramic imported from China? My mother was so proud of the two porcelain figurines she used to decorate her table at formal dinners along with the more common figures modeled in that sugar paste called tragant. But my first hostess here in Grantville, Frau Kindred, has two big cupboards full of porcelain, including an entire formal dinner set for twelve persons, and a less ornate set, which the family eats from every day. The children too."
"I don't believe that."
"It's true. What her grandchildren are not allowed to touch are those beautiful bowls, vases and figurines kept in a glass-fronted cabinet. The oldest, and very finest, are called Meissen."
"Meissen? In Saxony? On the river Elbe near Dresden?"
"Yes. There are people here in Grantville already working on producing porcelain from local clays. But Grantville is not a good place for a large scale production. It's just too far from the main routes of transportation. We would need to move the best clay here from Saxony, get the fuel for the big ovens, and then transport the finished products along the roads. That is just not practical." Johannes stopped to work his fingers and loosen the joints. "I want to work with painting some of the items myself; Frau Kindred's figurines made my fingers itch to try something similar."
"Where do you plan to build the factory? Jena?"
"No. The Saale River is not really big enough for transportation above Halle. We need a place near a reliable river connection. We are financing the project by selling shares. And since every royal and noble household in Europe has been paying their weight in gold for the imports, we are having no problems getting all the money we want. The Grantville Council and the Swedish administration have already brought large shares, as have various people in Saxony. Most of the Saxon investors want the new factories in Dresden, while the Americans—and I—want Magdeburg."
"To help heal what happened there?"
"Yes. And if I go back to painting, the way Don Francisco suggests, I could sell shares where I went. I get percentage of each sale—in shares of course"
"You've certainly connected with the real world, Johannes."
"Yes. Did you ever hear the story about what the sailor said to the nun? And let us have another beer. Remembering Magdeburg still makes me angry."
Early the following morning, Johannes and Frank walked through the sunny streets from their lodgings to the Grange. Despite the early hour, someone was repairing one of the American machines for working in the fields in the parking lot and several horses were tied to the wooden posts erected along one side. In the hall inside the building they found old Willie Ray talking to a delicately built, dark-haired young man whose outfit proclaimed him a cavalry officer, and a big tow-haired man, who was dressed like a servant but had the hands and sunburn of a farmer.
"Good morning, Father Johannes." Willie Ray nodded to Johannes and turned back to his young visitor. "You asked about the crops painted on the walls here, and here is the painter himself. Father Johannes please meet Prince Ulrik of Denmark. Officially, of course, he is a visiting Danish nobleman, but there's not much point in trying to pretend with you. You know too many people. Well, then. If the two of you will excuse me I'll go find our pamphlets about dairy farming."
The young man stepped forward and shook hands with Johannes, while Frank bowed and went to talk with the prince's big companion.
Prince Ulrik was the youngest of three sons King Christian IV of Denmark had sired on his queen. Johannes knew that the Swedish king Gustavus Adolphus—whom the young prince had once served as a officer—considered Ulrik to be by far the best of the Danish king's many children. He was certainly the brightest and most virtuous. Johannes had read a short pamphlet, Castigation of the Vices, that Prince Ulrik had written a few years ago. He met the lively, dark eyes of the intellectual young prince with delight.
"Your Royal Highness." Johannes followed the young prince's handshake with a deep bow. "I am honored to meet you. Would you care for some refreshment? I know the contents of the jugs on the table are available to visitors."
"Yes, please. Wine if possible." Prince Ulrik smiled, and gestured for Johannes to take a seat on the other chair beside the open window.
"So, you do drink alcohol?" Faced with the friendly smile, Johannes relaxed and dropped most of his formality. Some nobles, even when they were officially traveling incognito, took offense if even the least title or obeisance were omitted, but clearly Prince Ulrik did not. Not to mention that his own stay in Grantville had made him rather impatient with such. "I took the greatest pleasure in reading your treatise on the vices last year." He handed the prince a rather coarse mug of red wine.
"Thank you." Prince Ulrik smiled wryly. "At the time I really had nothing to do except writing and doing a few paintings. But it is the lack of moderation in man, rather than the innocent wine I'm opposed to. After all, even Our Lord Jesus created wine." He sipped the wine and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "An excellent quality. But your works are known to me too, Father Johannes. At least I do suppose that the JIGI, who draws those political satires in the Simplicissimus Magazine, is the same Father Johannes, whose paintings I admired at the Jesuit school in Wuerzburg?"
"It is, but I had no idea the similarity was that obvious."
"It's not. But I have seen your broadsheets too, and even copied your way of creating shades during my own meager attempts at the art." Prince Ulrik smile flashed in his narrow, sunburned face. "I have no intention of mentioning this to anyone, as your use of a pseudonym indicates a wish to be incognito. In fact, I have been pondering possible additional benefits of incognito myself."
"Oh?"
"His Swedish Majesty, King Gustavus Adolphus, has always shown me the greatest kindness," the prince said with a pensive frown. "Last year I had intended to take service in Saxony with relatives of my late mother, but His Majesty wrote to me in his own hand, warning me not to do so. Instead I was to come to him as soon as my duties to my royal father permitted this. The American books had warned, not only when and where King Gustavus would die, but also that I would be assassinated while in Saxon service this very year. His Majesty wanted me to enter his service again, but my royal father forbade that. Instead I have been traveling on my father's behalf." Prince Ulrik shook his head. "Questioning farmers about breeding cows is not beneath my dignity—and Lars was sent with me to ensure I asked the right questions—but the increasing tension between King Gustavus and my royal father has given me a better appreciation of anonymity. Not to mention the problems between his Swedish majesty and my late mother's family in Brandenburg and Mecklenburg." Prince Ulrik smiled again. "Still, it's not yet bad enough to make me abandon my duties and renounce my family and title." He then turned serious. "I'd planned to stay in Grantville for a while, Father Johannes, to indulge myself in some studying before returning to Denmark. But Grantville is a republic, and I'm not certain a royal prince would be welcome here. You have lived here for years, Father Johannes, would you expect my royal connection to be a problem?"
"Your Highness, I have absolutely no idea." Johannes looked toward where Frank and Lars had been joined by Willie Ray, who was showing the two farmers something in the papers he was holding. "The Americans pay little attention to formal rank, and are very devoted to the idea of democracy. Calling them republicans is a bit like calling the pope a Catholic. On the other hand they have no problem—mostly—with accepting King Gustavus Adolphus as their Captain-General, and welcome him quite warmly. That your royal connections are Danish might in fact be more of a problem." Johannes frowned. "The American attitude towards enemies is different from what I would have expected, but I cannot quite pinpoint the nature of the difference. The propaganda against the Holy Roman Empire is almost absent here in Grantville, and the Catholic Church seems quite welcome, but if the recent tension became war?" Johannes shrugged. "I just don't know."
That the weather had suddenly changed to autumn. A cold gale roamed the streets but seemed to have no effect on the activities going on. Johannes kept close to the tall brick buildings to avoid getting jostled. The smooth black surface beneath his boots was slippery with wet leaves as he walked towards his lodgings in the Heinzerlings' house next to St. Mary's Catholic Church. He was looking forward to a few quiet hours making drawings of the English king's latest antics.
"Father Johannes, come inside, bitte." As he passed the neighbor's house, the door opened and Gertrude Wiegert waved at him. A pretty young girl from the poorest part of Jena she had been destined for a life of prostitution like the older women in her family until Gretchen and Jeff Higgins had brought her to study in Grantville.
In the cozy living room a young man sat with a mug of warm beer in his hands, but rose when Johannes entered. "Father Johannes please meet Oswald Weisshaus. He's a friend of my family from Jena, and also a friend of Gretchen and Herr Jeff Higgins. He would like to speak with you. Would you like a mulled beer?"
Johannes accepted and sat down.
"Good evening, Father," said Oswald Weisshaus resuming his seat, "I think Gretchen and Herr Jeff Higgins mentioned you during one of their visits. You are Professor Marcus Grunwald's younger brother, and don't share his dislike of Americans and new ideas, yes?"
"That is right, Herr Weisshaus. I'm sure Gretchen also told you that I don't fully agree with her either."
"She did." The young man suddenly grinned, making Johannes wonder just what Gretchen had said about him. "Still," Oswald went on more seriously, "the man asking questions about the younger Grunwald brother was no friend of anyone."
"When was this, and who did he claim to be?" Johannes asked, suddenly alert.
"He didn't give a name, and it was a week ago tomorrow."
Gertrude interrupted, putting a warm mug on the table. "He was a real creep. He made himself so obnoxious that Oswald and the others threw him out of the new Freedom Arches."
"Yes," said Oswald. "But we've kept an eye on him, and he's staying in the Golden Star."
"That takes money. Any sign of soldiers with him?" If the Inquisition had send a single man to Protestant Jena, this might be the contact attempt Johannes had been waiting for. Though from what Gertrude had said, there wasn't much chance for an agreement with this man.
"None. Are you in trouble?"
"Probably," Johannes smiled, "but how much I just cannot figure out. Nor with whom. Thanks for the warning. Any other news from Jena?"
The Grunwald house in Jena had been changed in the eight years since Johannes' previous visit. Not on the outside; that was still a big, sprawling construct built about a hundred years ago, shortly before the nearby Dominican monastery had been converted into the Jena University. The house had come into the family as a part of his grandmother's dower, and Johannes had lived there for several months of every year when he was a child. The small court behind the gates had been decorated with flowers in summer and small evergreen trees in winter when Marcus' wife, Catharina, had still been alive; now it was swept and clean but with no decorations. The main building was directly across the court, fronted by an imposing modern staircase built when Marcus had become professor of theology, but Johannes turned right to a door separated from the ground by only a single step. As the only son of the house, Martin had once had a spacious apartment on the second floor of the main house, but after the loss of one leg from the knee down at Magdeburg, he and his small family had moved to a place with fewer steps for him to climb.
"Uncle Johannes." Martin looked up and smiled. "Louisa told me you'd gone out very early this morning. Weren't you tired after arriving so late last night?"
"Yes, but I slept like a log and woke early." Johannes sat down and stretched out his legs. "It's been a long day, though."
"Did you accomplish what you set out to do?"
"More or less. I had a few surprises," Johannes scowled. "Elector John George of Saxony has donated the Castle Albrechtsburg in Meissen to the porcelain project, on the condition that the porcelain produced is called Meissen also in this world. The vote among the holders of the porcelain shares are now in favor of Meissen over Magdeburg."
"Frankly, Uncle Johannes, it makes sense to me. Sure, gas ovens would make the production much easier, but you told me they cannot be built yet. In Meissen you'll have the materials nearby, and the wood from the Saxon forests can float down the river to almost outside the factory door. It worked in the American world."
"Actually the clay is not near Meissen. It's from a place near Aue on the river Mulde. If it could be transported on the rivers it actually would be easier getting it downriver to Magdeburg than upriver to Meissen. Unfortunately the Mulde is as unreliable for transportation as the Saale, and overland the easiest track to the river Elbe goes by Dresden and Meissen." Johannes looked up at the big map on the wall behind Martin with the postal routes drawn in red ink and the rivers in blue. "I would have preferred not to put the factory in an area controlled by John George of Saxony. What tipped the scale, however, had little to do with logic. The shareholders liked the notion that in the isolated Albrechtsburg the 'secret' could be kept. Which in my opinion is pure nonsense, as the 'secret' is freely for sale in the books from Grantville. Sure, a lot of practical problems must be solved before anyone else can start production, but those solutions we must first discover too. With the work already going on in Grantville, we may have a head start on, for example, the French, but how to make porcelain is no longer a secret." Johannes sighed. "I finally got a consensus on the project starting in Meissen—presumably next summer, but with a second factory to open later in Magdeburg. Albrechtsburg Meissen will specialize in casting dinner sets and the simpler shapes and also do some stoneware. Magdeburg Meissen will experiment with glazing and do the finely detailed figures once the gas ovens are ready."
"A most Solomonic solution."
"Machiavellian too; porcelain glazes have all kinds of military uses. John George of Saxony doesn't know that." Johannes smiled at his nephew. It really didn't seem possible that the gentle and scholastic Martin had been a mercenary officer, and now wanted to become a novellante—well sort of. "But how about the magazine? Last night you just said it was going well."
"It is." Martin tried to look serious, but couldn't hold back a big grin. "The number of subscribers to Simplicissimus has now reached ten thousand, and we have direct deliveries to all major German towns, except in Bavaria, where we are on the edge of being banned."
"That's wonderful! But how did it grow so big so soon? I advised you to make a big first printing and spread them around for free to show people what you were making. That seems to be the way the Americans do it when they want to sell something new."
"Yes, but I also used every single connection we have: family, scholars, bankers, merchants. Every one. Even the Committee of Correspondence, Mother's family and Grandmère's family in France. Asking for news, information, etc. And a quite surprising number send back money for a subscription; apparently everybody wants to keep track of what is going on around the Americans. It truly is wonderful. But what now for you? Are you going to Saxony?"
Johannes looked at Martin; aside from Frank Erbst, there really wasn't anyone he cared more about or trusted more. And besides, Martin might see something Johannes didn't. "About a week ago I met a man in Grantville, Herr Oswald Weisshaus, a student here in Jena. He told me of a man asking questions about me around Jena."
"The Inquisition?"
"Sort of, only not quite. The man is staying at The Golden Star, and I went to see him today. Turned out he was working for Franz von Hatzfeldt, the prince-bishop of Wuerzburg, whose diocese is now, since the autumn of 1632, administered by Grantville under the Swedes' agreement with Herr Stearns. Bishop Hatzfeldt is in Bonn, and he wants his land back."
"I thought Bishop Hatzfeldt had gone to the family estate east of Cologne." Martin made a note on a piece of paper. "But never mind that. Just how do you—and the Inquisition—enter into that?"
"I met the bishop in 1627, while I was doing some paintings at the collegium in Bamberg, and he was the leader of their diplomatic corps. The bishop of Bamberg, Johann Georg Fuchs von Dornheim had just gifted Hatzfeldt with the administration of Vizedans in Carinthia, and Hatzfeldt wanted some decorations for his new house there. Now Hatzfeldt has offered to 'arrange' a total pardon for my behavior at Magdeburg. You know: high-strung artist, cracking under the strain, etc."
"And in return for what?"
"Just me telling him about the Americans, so he can approach them properly, and convince them—and King Gustavus Adolphus—to give him back his bishopric."
"Double agent. Don't go there, Johannes."
"Who knows? The Americans might do for him what they have done for the abbot of Fulda. Give him back all of the work but none of the income, while they assign a 'liaison' to watch him closely." Father Johannes smiled grimly. "But I've changed a lot from that naive, little painter Hatzfeldt knew. The old Johannes would have taken that bait, while now I want to think about it. And talk with a man named Francisco Nasi in Grantville."
Martin took a round, dark bottle and two glasses from the cupboard behind him, filled the glasses with the thick, golden liquid, and pushed one towards Johannes. "Between the war and the Americans, I wonder either of us knows who he is or what he believes in any more. In fact, I wonder how anybody could."
The news about the Danish attack on Wismar had reached Jena just as Johannes was about to leave. As he rode through the misty drizzle into Grantville the following evening, the usual hustle and bustle of the town was subdued. People stood talking quietly in small groups instead of hurrying in all directions, and even the Thuringen Gardens was almost silent in the hazy twilight.
Johannes returned the borrowed horse to the stable behind the Heinzerlings' house and went to knock on the door to the main house. He was renting two rooms in one of the converted outbuildings, but although he was wet, sore and tired after the long ride, it seemed better to hear the news as soon as possible.
After telling Johannes about the battle, and the death of the young men, in his usual profane version of the German language, Father Heinzerling mentioned that Don Francisco had sent a message asking for Johannes to come visit at his earliest convenience, so—after sending a longing thought to his waiting bed—Johannes went off again.
"You asked to see me, Don Francisco?" Johannes had found the young Jew still in his office.
"Ah! Yes. Please sit down, Father Johannes. I understand you are acquainted with Prince Ulrik of Denmark?"
"Yes. Has there been trouble? I've heard about the battle."
"Denmark is now officially at war with the CPE—or the United States of Europe as I understand that it will soon be named. The town was most upset about the death of Hans Richter and the young American officers. Prince Ulrik's identity is not publicly known, of course, but he did not conceal that he was Danish. A visiting Danish nobleman. Some of the town's more unruly elements, although they did not dare to threaten an armed man who could be expected to have a fair amount of skill at close-in fighting, attacked his servants while they were working in the stables, unarmed. They beat one of them rather badly before the police arrived."
"And the prince?"
Don Francisco's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "The prince is safe, although he found the attack on Lars unexpectedly upsetting. He wishes to talk with you before making a decision. Prince Ulrik is a cavalry officer by profession. His primary loyalty must be expected to be to his royal father, King Christian of Denmark. Even so, King Gustavus Adolphus has sent a message asking for his young relative to give parole and travel to him with an escort of Swedish soldiers. But as I said, the prince wished to talk with you first."
* * *
Prince Ulrik was standing with his back to the room, gazing out the window at the lights from the town flickering in the darkness, when Johannes entered. After a brief glance over his shoulder, the young man returned to his view.
Johannes considered a formal greeting, but decided to just stand and wait.
"Do you remember who wrote that democracy was just another word for the rule of the mob?" Prince Ulrik's voice was devoid of emotion, as if he were inquiring about a minor philosophical point of no particular importance.
"No, but I think he was British."
"That . . . That sounds likely." Prince Ulrik took a deep breath. "Any ideas why they attacked my servants?"
"It could be because they consider a servant as important as a prince. Still, the attackers did not know that you were a prince and, thanks to the prudence of the Grantville police, still do not know it. They only knew that you are the subject of what they call an 'enemy nation.' So I consider it more likely that they simply were so cowardly that they preferred to attack the unarmed. The men attacking your servants would hardly be considered upstanding citizens. Surely you've seen soldiers run amok and turn into a mob after a battle?"
"Yes." Prince Ulrik sighed and leaned his head against the window. "I suppose it was foolish of me to expect the Americans to be more civilized than that."
"People are people, and when they are hurt, they bite. I suppose being civilized is really just a question of having the self control to bite only those who hurt you, rather than whoever is near."
"I have read several pamphlets from a group called the Committee of Correspondence. Do you think they are behind this?"
"No. The committee might include the most radical and revolutionary of both Germans and Americans, but they are not stupid and they are not ruled by their emotions. This attack on you had to be based entirely on emotions."
"The American books do not tell why I was assassinated in the American world—or by whom."
"No." Johannes smiled. "But since you were in Saxon service, I'd say you should seek the reason in that court. Or rather that you should stay away from it."
"The corruption there makes me sick! All my mother's family . . . And the drunkenness in my father's . . ." Prince Ulrik fell silent for a moment. "I never said that, Father Johannes."
"Sub Rosa, Prince Ulrik. And that you are Protestant does not change that for me." Johannes smiled again as Prince Ulrik turned. "None of us get to choose our relatives, and the command to honor our parents does not mean we must approve of everything they do; only that we should take their best qualities and copy them in ourselves." Johannes filled the fine glass on the table with wine and pushed it towards the prince, who drank and sat down.
"The quality was actually better at the Grange." Prince Ulrik sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, the sparkle returning to his eyes. "My father takes his duties as king very seriously, and has done his best to see that my brothers and I do the same. But my father isn't Denmark, and while I could never go to war against him, I also no longer feel any obligation to fight in his service."
"If you could follow your heart, what would you do?"
"Go to Schwerin. My father saw to it that I was made the Lutheran prince-bishop of Schwerin, and while I only held the office briefly, that is where I feel I belong. It's been conquered by Gustavus Adolphus, and while His Majesty naturally takes care of all his subjects, I am deeply concerned about the people of Schwerin. They have suffered much, and really need the stability of a permanent leadership."
"And if you went to the king of Sweden and gave parole, as he has requested, would he entrust you with the administration of Schwerin?"
"Probably. Chancellor Oxenstierna has hinted at such a possibility." Prince Ulrik sat for a while sipping his wine and looking towards the dark window. "The problem really comes down to the fact that the person I admire the most and want to resemble is at war with all the rest of my family. And so it seems I must either choose one or the other. Betray my family or betray myself."
"Or turn your back—at least partly—upon both. A separate peace, I believe the Americans call it." At Johannes' words, Prince Ulrik turned abruptly towards him.
"What are you talking about? Changing my name and setting myself up as an incognito mercenary captain?"
"Not unless you feel that is the right thing for you to do." Johannes smiled. "Schwerin, I suspect, would be adequately neutral. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about things like obligations and honor, faith and betrayal. I cannot claim to have found the absolute truth, but it seems to me that logic, reason, and the things you ought to do can only take you so far. Sooner or later you get to the point where all that can guide you is your heart and your faith." Johannes looked down on his hands, rubbing them to ease the stiffness caused by holding the reins all day. "I've felt caught between my church wanting me to do what I felt was wrong and the Americans wanting me to embrace ideas that I could only partly support. So, I'm partly turning my back upon both and refusing to work for either. I'll aid the Americans only as far as I feel comfortable with, while the church may hold my heart but not the use of my skills. I'll take my life into my own hands, work my painting as I choose, and try to right what I see as wrong."
"Are you advising me to do something similar?"
"Only mentioning the possibility of choosing a third option, when the two obvious ones leave you paralyzed and incapable of action. If Schwerin feels like the place you belong, for now at least, this might be God's way of telling you where he wants you to go. If your loyalty toward your father keeps you from giving King Gustavus Adolphus the oaths that would let you return there as prince-bishop?" Johannes shrugged. "It might still be the right place for you to be as a traveling Danish nobleman. And if your admiration for King Gustavus makes you reluctant to take action against him on your father's behalf? Then place your faith in God, and trust your heart to guide you."
Prince Ulrik's lips quirked. "Perhaps, as was done so expediently in Rudolstadt last spring, I should adopt the words of a writer of times between now and then. 'Trust not in princes. They are but mortal. Earth born they are and soon decay.' I'll think about this." He rose and went to stand by the window again. "My thanks for your time and counsel, Father Johannes."
Two weeks later Johannes once again looked up from a table filled with maps to see Don Francisco standing in the door to the school room.
"You left a message for me, Father Johannes?"
"Only to see you at your convenience, Don Francisco. There is no hurry."
"I wasn't doing anything that couldn't wait. I take it you are curious about Prince Ulrik?"
"If you have news, I am of course interested." Johannes smiled. "But I also expect the prince to find his own destiny without any help from me."
"I see. Well, the prince has reached Magdeburg without mishaps, and is presently negotiating with Chancellor Oxenstierna concerning Schwerin. Rumor has it that the prince and Prime Minister Stearns yelled at each other for a while. The prime minister felt that Prince Ulrik might be of more use as a diplomatic bridge—a negotiator—than as a bishop. But an agreement is expected." Don Francisco sat down at the table and looked inquiringly at Johannes. "But what did you want to see me about?"
"I've been considering your suggestion, Don Francisco. I'll be leaving for Cologne at the end of April, to accept a commission from the Hatzfeldt family."
"I see. Any particular reason for you to accept this particular commission?" Don Francisco looked down on the map of Kronach.
"Several reasons; some personal, some artistic, and some I'm sure would interest you."
Francisco looked at Johannes. "Any connection with your visits to the Grantville Hotel these past few weeks?"
"Yes. I've been "playing cloak and dagger" as the Americans call it with a Herr Otto Tweimal from Wuerzburg. A greasy little creep working for Bishop Franz von Hatzfeldt." Johannes smiled wryly. "He made me an offer I could not refuse."
"I've heard of him."
"Archbishop Ferdinand of Cologne's cousin, Maria Maximilane von Wartenburg, is to take up residence in the Hatzfeldt's newly acquired house in Cologne, along with most of the distaff part of the Hatzfeldt family. The property is several old houses—all of which are worn and drab—so officially I'm hired to paint murals for the ladies and advise on the restoration and decorations. Nice job and well paid. Unofficially, Hatzfeldt wants me to tell him about the Americans in return for a pardon—signed by Archbishop Ferdinand—for my behavior at Magdeburg. Herr Tweimal didn't actually mention negotiating with the Americans or King Gustavus, but also didn't hide that the bishop wants his bishopric back."
"Hmm! And Archbishop Ferdinand?"
"It was indicated that the archbishop was not to know that anything more than painting was going on."
"Bishop Hatzfeldt is an old patron of yours, Father Johannes. Do you believe he is planning a double deal behind the archbishop's back?"
Johannes shrugged. "Could be. When I met Franz von Hatzfeldt, he was a full member of the episcopal chapter administration of Bamberg as well as Wuerzburg. He had proved himself an excellent diplomat in negotiations with Tilly, and had slowly gained more and more influence until he was elected bishop of Wuerzburg just a few months before the Protestant conquest of that diocese. I'd say he is a most pragmatic man, ambitious, but very tolerant of other faiths. He definitely does care about his subjects—may actually be worrying about them—and takes his responsibilities very seriously. He'll be coming to Cologne from time to time, to see his family and to follow my progress with the house."
"And where are you planning to stay, Father Johannes?"
"I'm invited to live in the Hatzfeldt family's house there, but must of course leave it from time to time. I plan to buy materials from the merchant Beauville, but must also make arrangements with other traders and craftsmen."
"Herr Beauville is well known to me." Don Francisco smiled. "Before the collapse in the woad trade, my family dealt with him from time to time. This would be a good time to reestablish the connection. I expect this to make for a steady correspondence between Beauville and myself, and I would be most interested in any letters you'd care to send that way. But you mentioned a personal aspect to this offer?"
"Yes, but it's just that—personal."
Don Francisco didn't seem offended by the rudeness, just smiled a little and said softly, "I might be able to help, Father Johannes."
Johannes sat for a while playing with his pen, "Does the name Paul Moreau mean anything to you?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"A fellow painter. His mother was a friend of my mother. He got into trouble with the church. Shortly before Magdeburg, I found out that not only had he been tortured by the Inquisition, but it was also absolutely certain that the charges were—or at least the evidence against him was—false. I didn't do anything at the time but this may offer me a chance to do something to help him. At least find out what happened."
"Father Johannes, you have been hiding from the Inquisition for almost two years, and now you plan to challenge them?"
"Hiding from the Inquisition or hiding from myself?"
Don Francisco shook his head. "Perhaps I should now ask you: do you fear God and do you fear the Devil?"
"I no longer have an answer, Don Francisco."