Convent of the Dames Blanches, Louvain, The Low Countries
“Your Highne—I mean, Sister Isabella?”
The urgency in the novitiate’s tone caused the infanta Isabella to start—that, and a brief pulse of religious guilt. Once again, Isabella’s thoughts had drifted away from her devotions and novenas and veered into memories of her long-dead husband Albert and poignant fantasies of a family that might have been. “What is it, my child?”
“There is a . . . a penitent here to see you.”
“A penitent?” Isabella sat a bit straighter. Sister Marie was neither a very mature nor a very wise novitiate, but she certainly knew that only priests could hear confessions and that they generally did not situate themselves at convents to do so. So this “penitent” was clearly someone traveling incognito, a subtlety which had obviously eluded, and therefore baffled, the country-bred novitiate.
Isabella smoothed her habit, touched her neck as if to assure herself that it was still there, and nodded. “Show the ‘penitent’ in.”
If the young nun was surprised that the sister who was also the archduchess of the Spanish Lowlands was willing to receive a “penitent” in the unusually well-furnished room that had been set aside for her biweekly retreats, she gave no sign of it.
But when Sister Marie returned, she was decidedly flustered.
“Sister Isabella . . . this penitent . . . I am not sure. That is, I think . . . I fear I have—”
“Yes, he is a man. Do not be alarmed, child. None of the men I know bite. At least, they don’t bite nuns. Usually.”
Sister Marie first flushed very red, then blanched very white. She made a sound not unlike a whimpering squeak, then nodded herself out and the visitor in.
Isabella smiled as she turned. So which one of her many renegade charges had been resourceful enough to find her here—?
She stopped: a large figure draped in a cloak of gray worsted had already entered and sealed the room. The cloak was ragged at the edges, loosely cowled over the wearer’s face. Whatever else Isabella had expected, this rough apparel and stealthy approach was not merely discomfiting but downright—
Then the hood went back and she breathed out through tears that, at her age, came too readily and too quickly for her to stop. “Hugh.” And suddenly, in place of what the wool had revealed—a square chin, strong straight nose, and dark auburn hair—she saw:
—the cherubic face of her newest page, sparkling blue eyes taking in the wonders of her formal, or “high,” court for the first time. Sunbeams from the towering windows marked his approach with a path of luminous shafts, which, as he walked through each one, glanced back off his reddish-brown hair as flashes of harvest gold. When summoned, his final approach to the throne was composed, yet there was mischief hiding behind the tutored solemnity of his gaze.
Isabella had affected a scowling gravity with some difficulty. “Are you sure you are prepared to be a page in this court, young Conde O’Donnell?”
“Your Grace, I’m sure I’m not!” His voice was high, but strong for his age. “But I will grow into this honor, just as I grow into the clothes you and the good archduke always send me.” And then Albert had laughed, and so had she, and the little boy smiled, showing a wonderful row of—
His white teeth were still as bright now as then, she realized as she reached out and put two, veined, wrinkled hands on either side of Hugh’s face. “My dear boy. You have returned.”
“Dearest Godmother, I have.”
And the pause told her, in the language of people who have long known each others’ hearts, that he had not just returned from Grantville, but from the long, dark travail that had started when he had turned away from his young wife’s winter grave almost five months ago. There was light in those dark blue eyes once again.
“Tell me of your trip to Grantville.”
He did. She listened, nodded several times. “And so you have decided to leave Spanish service.”
He blinked. “You have your copy of the letter? Already?”
“Of course. And you most certainly make an eloquent appeal for the home rule of the Netherlands, and link it to your own cause most cleverly.”
“So you think well of this?”
“Of the letter? The writing is like music, the idea eminently sound, and sure to save thousands of lives. And, of course, Philip will not countenance it.”
“Perhaps not. But I must try. Even though Olivares is obstinate about retaking the United Provinces.”
“So now you have ears at Philip’s court, too?”
“No, but I see what’s happening to his treasury. Yet he remains dedicated to spending countless reales to retain lands that have already been, de facto, lost to the crown. Once Fernando declared himself ‘King in the Low Countries,’ no other political outcome was possible. But Olivares has no prudence in the matter of the Lowlands. He spends money like a drunken profligate to prop up the economy while slashing even basic provisioning for its tercios. His fine faculties no longer determine how he reacts to events here. He is driven by pride and obstinacy.”
She smiled. “I will make a prince of you yet, my dear Earl of Tyrconnell. You have a head for this game.”
“That is because I have a peerless tutoress. Whose many wiles still surprise me: how did you get hold of my letter weeks before my man was to deliver it?”
“Dear boy, do you not think that I know what confidential agents you employ, and that I keep them better paid than you can afford?”
She saw surprise in his eyes and remembered how the first sight of them had been a salve to her wounded soul. He had arrived in her privy court as a stumbling toddler, shortly after she had lost her third—and last—child in infancy. In those days, she thought her attention to little Hugh’s education and fortunes was merely a clever self-distraction from her own sorrows. But now, being surprised by him like this, and finding her heart leaping up with a simple joy, she realized, perhaps for the first time, that he had been a surrogate for her losses, her childlessness. And he—fatherless a year after he arrived, and his mother a shadow figure trapped in the English court—had been, for all intents and purposes, an orphan, as beautiful and bright a child as might have stepped out of Eden. But there had been ambitious serpents all around, serpents sly and protected by titles, so she had often been compelled to protect him by employing methods as subtle and devious as theirs.
And she would still need to protect him now. “I must say that the timing of your decision to leave Philip’s employ is . . . dismaying, my dear.”
“Not as dismaying as finding that my godmother’s intelligence network includes my own servitors.”
“Hush, Hugh. How else could I know if one of them had finally been suborned by enough English pounds to betray you? But this time, it simply alerted me to your impending departure.”
Hugh’s eyes dropped. “What I found in Grantville left me no choice but to depart. Even if I was willing to go on to the fate those histories foretold, I cannot also lead my countrymen into pointless deaths. But I know well enough that Philip will not deem those sufficient grounds for my resignations, not even if he were to suddenly give full credence to the revelations of Grantville. All that he will see is that I have become a base ingrate.”
Isabella smiled. “Perhaps. But here is what I see.” She laid one hand back on his cheek, hating the palsied quiver in it that she could not still. “I see a man who blamed himself, and maybe the Spanish clergy’s initial nonsense about the ‘satanic’ Americans, for his wife’s death. And I see a nobleman who had to discover and act upon what the future held in store for his land and his people. And so you went to Grantville. And you have acted as you must. Now, tell me: having visited twice, what did you think of the Americans?”
“They are . . . very different from us.” Hugh looked up. “But I had suspected that, particularly after they sent me both condolences for Anna and an invitation to visit them all in one letter.”
“Yes, their manners are often—curious. Sometimes even crude. But on the other hand, so many of our courtesies have lost the gracious intentions that engendered them. The American manners are—well, they may be simple, but they are not empty. But enough of this. If you come to me disguised in this rude garb, I presume we cannot have much time, so—to business.”
“Yes, Godmother. In part, I had come to tell you to expect the copy of my letter to Philip within the week. Which you have had for over a month, I gather. But I also came to tell you something else.”
“Yes?” Such hesitancy was most unlike Hugh, and she felt her fingers become active and tense.
“My men will not all stay in your employ.”
She closed her eyes, made sure her voice remained neutral. It would not do to impart the faintest hint to Hugh that she knew more about his most recent activities and the condition of his tercio than he did. “I presumed some of your men might wish to leave, since Philip has not sent sufficient pay in many months. A reasonable number are free to go at once. I will see to their release from service. But I cannot afford to have an entire tercio disband overnight. It will take some months to achieve a full release. And we will have to weather a torrent of displeasure from Madrid.”
“And my many thanks for bearing the brunt of Philip’s imperial temper, but that is still not what I came to tell you.”
Isabella became nervous again. Her intelligence on Hugh’s movements and meetings was uncommonly good and multisourced. But surprises were still possible, and at this point, the smallest surprise could derail the delicate plans she had set in motion.
“Godmother, it may yet transpire that Philip will think worse of me than merely being an ingrate. Though Spain may have made some temporary alliances of convenience, her interests are still ranged against almost every other nation of Europe. And so, if my employ is not with Philip, I might find myself confronting his banners, rather than beneath them.”
Despite anticipating this, Isabella still felt a stab at her heart, wondered if it was emotion or the frailty of age. “Dear boy, this is dire news.”
“How can it be otherwise, dearest Godmother? But before I depart to—to distant places, I want you to know this:”—and he stopped and reached out a hand to touch her cheek, down which tears promptly sped in response—“I will never suffer my sword, or those of my men, to be lifted against yours.”
“I remain a vassal of Philip, so how can you make such a promise?”
Hugh looked at her steadily. “I make my oath and I pledge my life upon it.” And then he studied her more closely, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “But I foresee that my promise may not be so difficult an oath to keep as you suggest. I see other changes afoot, Godmother. Don Fernando proclaims himself the king in the Low Countries, but not the king of the Netherlands? What careful distinctions. They almost seem like mincing steps and mincing words, if I didn’t know him—and you—better.”
As his smile widened knowingly, she felt another stab of panic: does he suspect our plans? He must not! Not yet, anyway—for his own sake. And his next words did indeed quicken her fear that Hugh might have stumbled upon the subtle machinations she had activated for his eventual benefit and of which he had to remain unaware, for now.
“And Fernando’s careful steps towards greater autonomy also lead me to wonder: which Americans have had your ear in the privy chambers? And how has Philip reacted to your receiving their counsel, and to Fernando’s unusual declaration? No, do not tell me. If I do not know Philip’s will on this matter, or your plans—and you do not know mine—then Philip can never accuse you of being a traitor to his throne, no matter what might occur.”
Isabella managed not to release her breath in one, great sigh of relief. No, he had no specific information. He discerned the looming crisis—the inevitable conflicts with Madrid—but nothing more specific. Thankfully, he had not learned of their plans or his envisioned role in them.
Hugh was now completing and expanding the oath with which he had begun. “So finally, know this too, Godmother. Once I have returned from my travels, if you call for my sword, it is yours. And, if Don Fernando finds himself estranged from his brother’s good opinion, and still in your favor, he may call for my sword as well.”
Until that moment, Isabella had always cherished a view of Hugh as the wonderful, smiling boy that had made her childless life a little more bearable. Now, he was suddenly, and completely, and only, a man and a captain, and, possibly, an important ally in the turbulent times to come. The ache of her personal desolation vied with the almost parental pride she felt for the boy who had become this man. The contending emotions washed through her in a chaotic rush and came out as another quick flurry of tears. Through which she murmured, “Via con Dios, dear Hugh. Wherever you may go.”
He smiled, took his hand from her cheek, and put his lips to her forehead, where he placed a long and tender kiss. She sighed and closed her eyes.
When she opened them, he was gone.
Amiens, France
As du Barry entered, Turenne looked up. “What news?”
“We have word concerning the earl of Tyrconnell’s clandestine northward journey, sir. He slipped over the border into the Lowlands without incident four nights ago. Soon after, he apparently began the process of bringing the first group of troops down to us, the ones that will go with him to Trinidad.”
“Excellent. And how do you know this?”
“Reports from our watchers near his tercio’s bivouac report a smallish contingent making ready for travel. Several hundred more seem to be making more gradual preparations for departure.”
“I see. Did Lord O’Donnell ask for their release from service at court in Brussels?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how did he manage it?”
Du Barry reddened. “I regret to say we do not know, Lord Turenne. Once he crossed the border, our agents were not able to keep track of him. He is far more versed in the subtleties of those lands and those roads. For a while, we even feared him dead.”
Turenne started. “What? Why?”
“The very last reports inexplicably placed him in Colonel Preston’s camp just outside of Brussels during a surprise attack upon a council of the other captains of the Wild Geese tercios. Our observer necessarily had to hang well back, so as not to be picked up in the sweeps afterward. By the time he returned, he could find no trace of O’Donnell, nor pick up his trail.”
Turenne thought. “Is there any chance the earl himself staged that attack? As a decoy to distract our observers, and to escape in the confusion of its aftermath?”
Du Barry shrugged. “Not unless Lord O’Donnell was also willing to sacrifice a number of his own men to achieve those ends, sir. And his reputation runs quite to the contrary of such a ruthless scheme. His concern for his men is legendary, and a matter of record. The only friction he ever had with his godmother the archduchess, other than some puppyish clamorings to be sent to war too early in his youth, were his complaints over the recent welfare of, and payrolls for, the common soldiers of his tercio.”
“Complaints for which he had good grounds, as I hear it.”
“Indeed so, Lord Turenne. Although his godmother herself has had no hand in causing the tercios’ pay to be in arrears. That is determined by the court at Madrid.” Du Barry shifted slightly “While on the subject of the earl of Tyrconnell’s Wild Geese, sir: is it your intent to really allow hundreds of them to cross over the border into France in one group? I suspect there might be some, er, pointed inquiries, if you were to add so many mercenaries to your payroll, and all at once.”
Turenne stared at his chief councilor and expediter. “What are you driving at, du Barry?”
“Sir, with the recent increased tensions at court between Cardinal Richelieu’s faction, and that of Monsieur Gaston, a sudden hiring of hundreds, and eventually perhaps thousands, of new foreign mercenaries could appear to be motivated by domestic rather than foreign worries.”
“Ah,” sighed Turenne with a nod. “True enough, du Barry. And if it reassures you, I do not intend to allow the earl of Tyrconnell’s larger force to cross into France until we have full satisfaction in the matter of the tasks which lie before him in the Caribbean. However, in the meantime, we will provide for them as promised by sending the necessary livres over the border to the sutlers for their camps. We cannot hire them outright as long as they remain in service to Fernando and, I presume, Philip. So any money sent to them directly would be rightly construed as a sign that we had engaged their services while their oaths were still with their original employers. They, and we, would be rightly accused of base treachery.
“But mere provisioning cannot be so construed, for they are simply the designated beneficiaries of largesse which their countryman Tyrconnell has purchased for them. And so, even before they come to our colors, we will have bought their loyalty with ‘gifts’ of food for their hungry families. And by letting them clamor ever louder for permission to march south, we acquire something that I suspect Lord O’Donnell has not foreseen.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“Leverage over the earl himself.”
Du Barry frowned. “Now it is I who do not understand what you are driving at, Lord Turenne.”
Turenne smiled. “Let us presume that the Wild Geese in Brussels’ employ are becoming ever-more desirous of being allowed into France. Now let us also presume that the earl of Tyrconnell succeeds in his bid to wrest Trinidad from the Spanish. We may still need leverage over him in order to ensure that we remain the recipients of what he has seized.
“I hope, and believe, that Richelieu’s factors in the New World will offer the earl a fair price, and promptly. The ship dispatched by the Compagnie des Îles de l’Amérique to discreetly observe O’Donnell’s progress carries not only the cardinal’s personal agent, but also a great deal of silver.
“But if the negotiation with O’Donnell does not come off as planned—well, we must retain an incentive to compel him to turn the oil over to us. And if we still have the power to deny his increasingly desperate men entry to France at that time, he will have an additional incentive to look with particular favor on any terms our representatives offer him.”
Du Barry nodded, then asked in a careful voice, “Would he not have an even greater incentive to comply if we already had his men in our camps, unarmed and vulnerable to our . . . displeasure?”
Turenne frowned. “I will go only so far, du Barry. Leverage should not become synonymous with extortion, or kidnapping. I refuse to offer physical shelter to men that I actually intend to use as hostages. Let others play at such games: I shall not. I will keep my honor, my good name, and my soul, thank you. Besides, our agents in Brussels report that whispers about the Wild Geese’s possible departure en masse have fueled official concerns regarding their loyalty. Those concerns may be manifesting as even further constraints upon their provisioning. Furthermore, the commanders of the Spanish tercios are finding their Irish comrades increasingly worrisome and are pleading with Philip to remove them entirely.”
Turenne stood and poured a glass of wine as he outlined the logical endgame of the evolving political situation in the Spanish Lowlands. “Consequently, as the poverty of the Wild Geese increases, so will their desperation. Given another half year, they will all be clamoring to come to Amiens, where we shall be happy to accept them at rates favorable to us. And the earl of Tyrconnell, being a true, albeit young, father to his men, will not deny them that livelihood.”
Du Barry edged closer. Turenne took the hint and poured out a second glass with an apologetic smile. “Do not worry, du Barry. Matters are in hand.”
Du Barry took the glass; he raised it slightly in Turenne’s direction. “I toast the assured success of your plans, my lord, for they are so well-crafted as to need no invocation of luck.”
Turenne halted his glass’s progress to his lips. “Plans always need invocations of luck, du Barry. For we can only be sure of one thing in this world: that we may be sure of nothing in this world. A thousand foreseeable or unforeseeable things could go wrong. But this much we know, for we have seen it with our own eyes: France has a workable observation balloon, now. But the rest, this quest for New World oil?” Now Turenne sipped. “I avoid overconfidence at all times, my dear du Barry, for I am not one to snub fate. Lest it should decide to snub me in return.”