1635 The Papal Stakes (15 page)

“I thought Rome was in the hands of our Spanish comrades.” This time John’s tone was slow and assessing.

“It is.”

John thought that over. “I see.”

And Owen was glad he said no more; anything else would have been akin to poking a stick into a beehive. Technically, brothers Philip IV of Spain, and Fernando, the former cardinal-infante of the Low Countries, were indissolubly linked as part of the greater Hapsburg hegemony that straddled Europe like a colossus.

Or had. It seemed the colossus had become decrepit in some places and fragmented in others. Ferdinand III of Austria had not taken the steps necessary to become the next emperor of the Holy Roman Empire; that meant he had all but ceded the lands he had lost to the armies of Gustav Adolf. Ferdinand had also stood aside when the same Reformist forces battered down Maximilian of Bavaria, formerly a close ally and an ardent fellow Catholic. Then Philip IV’s own brother—Fernando, the cardinal-infante—had received title to the Spanish Low Countries from Isabella, and in short order, had proclaimed himself “King in the Netherlands”—a dubious title, since he was ostensibly subject to another king. Specifically, his brother in Madrid.

The consequences of all this internecine strife had been slow but certain in coming. Spanish
reales
had now ceased to flow into Fernando’s coffers. The new king in the Low Countries was thus hard pressed to maintain any tercios—such as the Irish—that were not paid directly by Philip. Madrid’s mood was not improved when Maria Anna, sister of Ferdinand III of Austria, eloped with Fernando when he borrowed one of the Swede’s up-time airplanes to spirit her back to the Low Countries. The once unified monolith that was Hapsburg power in Europe was undergoing troubling reconfigurations. Consequently, even a person as politically disinterested as Johnnie O’Neill understood that yesterday’s friends might easily transmogrify into tomorrow’s enemies.

Sean Connal’s youthful baritone rolled the length of the table. “So, Your Graces, I take it that the exact nature of our actions in Rome will be determined by the conditions we find there.”

Fernando exchanged an approving look with his wife, who inclined her head to indicate their collective royal pleasure with the young surgeon. “This is nicely put, Doctor; I was not informed you were as deft with words as you are with a scalpel.”

“My lady the Queen is as kind as she is eloquent. And generous. I have not yet had the honor of expressing my personal thanks to her for arranging my attendance at several of the medical practica offered by Lady Anne Jefferson. I wish I had a year to study under her tutelage.”

“How charming; she used exactly the same turn of phrase when remarking how much she would have liked to keep you on as a student. But it seems other duties must take precedence, now.”

“Yes, so it seems. But we have yet to learn what those duties are, other than to journey to Rome. And once there—?”

For a reason Owen could not quite ascertain, the royalty in the room became faintly uncomfortable. Rubens, after waiting a long moment, evidently concluded that this bit of business had been left for him to handle. “We are concerned for the safety of one of your countrymen, Father Luke Wadding. We feel that if all of you were to exhort him to do so, he would agree to depart from the Irish College in Rome.”

John’s head came up; one of Connal’s eyebrows did the same. Owen Roe leaned forward. “Father Wadding is in danger? From whom?”

Rubens looked for help from the Hapsburg end of the table but found none. “Consider the angry crowds in Rome, the violence of the occupation, the disorder. Amidst all that chaos, hunger, and desperation, almost anything could—”

“No.” The voice was John’s: firm, assured, decisive, like when he was on a battlefield. “Rome would never harm Luke Wadding. I’ve been there, and have studied”—he stumbled past that dubious claim—“with some of the fathers who are now teaching at the college at St. Isidore’s. So let me tell you how the Romans feel toward Father Luke Wadding. When they see him, they don’t hail him by any of his titles; to them, he’s not ‘Guardian of the College,’ or ‘Procurator,’ or ‘Reverend Father.’ He’s just Padre Luca. They say it without bowing, but with smiles as big and bright as rainbows. Which is just how he greets them. There’s simply no reason to be worried about his safety in Rome.”

“Yet, we are worried,” announced Fernando, his face suddenly longer than usual.

“But from whom does he need protection?”

“From my brother’s servants.”

Now it was Owen’s turn to goggle. “What? The
Spanish
would harm Wadding? Your Highness, he studied in Salamanca! He was well-known in Philip’s court—”

Isabella leaned forward, her face pained—rather the way it is when a parent must admit they have a destructive or truant child. “My nephew Philip was—unwise—in electing to give Cardinal Borja such wide discretionary powers. In fact, there is rumor that the many of the cardinals who were killed ‘resisting lawful arrest’ during the attack upon Rome were slain by Borja’s agents.”

“What were the crimes of these cardinals?”

“What indeed?” answered Isabella, who looked at Owen directly, her face as hard and lined as slate.

Owen gaped for a moment before easing his jaw shut. So they had all been
assassinated
? Upwards of a dozen cardinals? Was Borja mad? And if he was, that could even mean—“What about the pope? Is there word whether he still lives?”

“That is not known. And is yet another topic for us to discuss. However, insofar as Father Wadding’s safety is concerned, part of our worry arises from the fact that the Franciscan College at St. Isidore’s was built and endowed by Ludovisi money.”

Owen shook his head; the family politics of Rome were well beyond the scope of his knowledge.

Queen Maria Anna provided the rest. “The Ludovisi family and its cardinal have a long, friendly affiliation with the Barberinis. And particularly with Maffeo Barberini—Pope Urban VIII.”

“Oh,” said Owen. “I see.”

“Yes,” nodded Isabella, confirming the magnitude of both Borja’s monstrousness and pettiness. “Now, if it was my nephew the king who was overseeing the situation in Rome, there would be a comparatively even hand guiding the actions of the tercios, inquisitors, and confidential agents. But with Borja in command—”

The whole room had become glum. In the up-timer history books, the name Borja was remembered—in its Italianate form “Borgia”—for treachery and murder, particularly poisoning. That, at least, had been the height of the family’s infamy in that world, but here—

“Still,” Owen protested, “Wadding is primarily a scholar. And he’s a staunch Counter-Reformationalist, besides. Surely Borja wouldn’t arrest him simply because his college was built with money that came from a friend of the pope.”

Isabella inclined her head in agreement. “No, probably not. But there is an added complication.”

“There always is,” observed Sean Connal with a faint smile.

Isabella darted a glance at him; Owen couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or delighted. Probably both, knowing her. “We have it on relatively good authority that in the past year, Pope Urban created a number—an unprecedented number—of cardinals
in pectore
.”

John O’Neill fumbled after the Latin. “
In pec
-what?”

Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, you have to do better than that.
Owen furnished the translation. “It’s what we call ‘close to the chest,’ Lord O’Neill. Popes can create cardinals without consulting the Consistory. Because these cardinals are not revealed to anyone else, they are considered hidden, or held ‘close to the chest.’” He turned toward Isabella. “So why was Urban creating cardinals
in pectore
? Do you suspect he was preparing for this kind of attack?”

Another smile from the archduchess that might have been a pat on the head. “We do not know, but it seems logical, in retrospect. After all, word has it that he consulted the up-time histories on the future of his papal tenure, and just beyond, very closely.”

“And how does all this concern Father Wadding?”

“It turns out that Father Wadding was the first Irish cleric ever to receive votes to be made a cardinal. It did not go through for political reasons. I suspect those same political reasons could make Borja fear Wadding now.”

Sean Connal nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Not to me it doesn’t,” John snapped across the table. “I know Wadding, and so must Borja. Father Luke will not lick the boots of heretics, and that’s well known by his friends in Madrid—”

“—who are not in Rome to help him,” soothed Rubens. “I have had occasion to scan the relevant histories. Wadding did indeed have many admirers among the Spanish Party in the Consistory, who appreciated his eloquent Counter-Reformation writings. But Wadding was also liked by Urban, who supported the expansion of his church, St. Isidore’s, and the Irish cause. As you all know. Yet, despite having friends in both circles, he never attracted the support necessary to become a cardinal.”

“Bigotry,” declared John O’Neill. “The same bigotry that kept the Curia from taking my father seriously when he begged them—”

“No,” interrupted Isabella. “The danger to Wadding does not stem from bigotry; it stems from fear.”

That stopped O’Neill as surely as if he had run headlong into a brick wall. “Fear? The Spanish cardinals—and Borja—
fear
Father Luke? But—?”

“Your esteemed Father Luke Wadding possesses a further quality that, in both this world and the up-timers’, made him anathema to all the papal parties, even though he was much admired by the individuals comprising them.”

Sean Connal nodded. “Integrity.”

“Yes. History shows that he was famous for speaking his conscience, even when it would have been far more politically prudent to trim his sails in the direction of one political faction or another.” Isabella paused. “Cardinal Borja will not trust such a man, particularly not if he suspects that Urban has already made him a cardinal
in pectore
.”

John went back slowly in his seat; the intricate strands of the noose that might be gathering about Luke Wadding’s neck were now clear to him.

“Yes,” nodded Rubens. “Borja wishes no opposition. He is ensuring that his new Consistory of Cardinals will have no voices that oppose his own. Wadding, if made a cardinal, would never remain silent or accept Borja’s atrocities—”

“—making Wadding a natural ally of Urban. Even if he doesn’t know it.” Owen shook his head.

“Just so. And this brings us to your final task in Rome. It concerns a related, but more—nebulous—objective.”

Owen frowned. “And what is that, Your Grace?”

“We would ask you to stay alert for any word on the location or condition of our Holy Father.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”
But wait, that hardly needs to be made an assignment; we’d be doing it anyhow, given all the chaos in Rome. So why even bring it up as—? Oh. I get it.
Owen pulled himself out of his thoughts and became of aware of the room again.

Isabella, eyes still on his, nodded. “Yes. We want you to seek word of Urban. With exceptional vigor.”

“And if we learn of his whereabouts?”

Fernando cleared his throat sharply. “Then, if you feel you can do so without being observed by any persons who report to Cardinal Borja, you are to endeavor to seek an audience with His Holiness the pope and offer to escort him here. For a visit.”

Owen wondered if he had heard correctly. “A…a ‘visit’? Here?”

Fernando smiled. “Your hearing is, evidently, unimpaired by your many years before the cannons, Colonel.”

Owen slumped back in his seat.
Well, Mother o’ God and dancing dogs…
“Your Highness, such a visit is hardly a casual day-trip. It’s a far journey, from Rome to Brussels. And with some potentially annoyed nations in the way, I might add.”

Fernando’s smile widened. “You will not be expected—you will not be
allowed
—to convey the pope here yourselves. You are merely to become his guardians, escort him to Venice, and send swift word through the doge. We shall make the necessary arrangements.”

“I…see. Again, your pardon, but won’t that message take weeks to reach you by boat?”

“I do not recall asserting that the message would come to us by boat, Colonel.”

And then Owen knew: up-time radio. There were sets operating in Venice, and there were sets in the Lowland as well. Each of the Hapsburgs had their own, it was rumored. And if the USE were to provide additional aid in operating the devices, or even relaying the signals—

“Yes,” nodded Fernando. “You see it now. Excellent.”

The earl of Tyrone hunched forward. “Any of these missions could become a very perilous business, Your Highness.” He paused, studying the many scars on his hands. “If our Spanish allies prove to be uncooperative, we’d find ourselves a bit outnumbered.”

Fernando’s nod and expression were somber. “Unquestionably. But my aunt has procured some tools that may improve those odds.”

“Really?” John sat up, as eager as a boy on Christmas morning.

Isabella looked down the table at Sean Connal, who stood, brandishing a cumbersome looking pistol with a huge cylinder in place of its barrel.

Owen frowned; he had seen this weapon before. “That was the weapon that foiled the assassination attempt at Preston’s camp two weeks ago,” he recalled aloud.

The surgeon nodded. “Yes, a pepperbox revolver. They are being paid for by Her Grace, the archduchess, and built in accordance with ideas that the earl of Tyrconnell brought back from Grantville.”

Owen ignored John’s resentful mutter and stared at the pistol instead. It was, without question, the ugliest weapon ever conceived. “It fires five times without reloading, if I recall.”

“More likely to kill with its looks than its bullets,” grumbled John.

“It’s quite effective,” Connal observed calmly.

“Hugh O’Donnell can keep his tools and lectures on effectiveness. Me, I’d like a little style, as well.”

“Yes,” Isabella snapped, “there’s the wisdom of my beloved Spain, imbibed in full by her servitors. Let us choose style over progress. Let us all be sure to have the latest boots and saddles—and all well-polished—as we ride down into the merciless maw of history and are consumed at a gulp.” A roomful of surprised eyes turned toward her. “It is the journey my brother Philip has embarked upon, with Olivares as his footman to light the way into black oblivion.” She snapped a single, gnarled finger down upon the tabletop for emphasis. “Philip has more resources than the rest of the nations of Europe combined, or very nearly so. Does he use it to adopt the up-time radios? No. Their wondrous medicines? No. Their aircraft and steam engines? No. Their weapons? Only those which are modest improvements upon those already in his arsenals. I am sixty-nine and even I—an old, feeble, cantankerous woman—see the need to invest in the changes the Americans have brought. It hardly matters whether we like them; the changes are here permanently. And we will either master, or be mastered by, them.”